


Statera Trium

by flypaper_brain, leoba, LoveThemFiercely



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 15th Century, Abbey of St Augustine, Aksum, All Those Tags are Here Because All of Those Relationships are Important, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Animal Death, Be Sure to Eat Your Pine Trees, Beekeeping, Bees, Ben Draws Hope, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben is Afraid of Fire and Horses, Birds, Brother Finn, Brother Lorcan is Wise and Amused, Canterbury - Freeform, Ceuta, Clues, Comfort, Debre Damo, Demons, Despair, Disguise, Empathy, Eyes, F/M, Finisterre, Finn Hates Camels, Finn Likes Horses and Flowers, Finn Needs A Hug, Finnrey, Finnreylo, Fire, Flashbacks, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Visions, Forgery, Friendship, Frustration, Granja de Moreruela, Hand porn, Hands, Holding Hands, Honey, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inevitability Accepted, Lead Scribe Brother Ben, M/M, Marrakech - Freeform, Memories, Monastery, Multi, Mystical Romance - Eventual Smut, Mystical Romance - No Smut, Offscreen Minor Character Deaths, Pilgrimage, Poetry and Prose, Prophetic Visions, Really Bizarre Hidden Canon Character Analogues Okay?, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey Picks Up More Strays, Rey Picks Up Strays, Reylo - Freeform, Rock of Gibraltar, Salisbury - Freeform, Santiago de Compostela, Sass, Scars, Scriptorium Deep-Dive, Self-Flagellation, Self-Harm, Slowest Burn in History, Spot the Canon Character Analogs, Suspicion, Symbolism, The Odyssey - Freeform, This is a Finnreylo Fic, Trees, Visions, Water, We lied, Wings, art lessons, don't get too excited yet, finnlo, manuscripts, rating has gone up, smoke, thirst, writing lessons, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-06-13 14:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 152,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flypaper_brain/pseuds/flypaper_brain, https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoba/pseuds/leoba, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveThemFiercely/pseuds/LoveThemFiercely
Summary: Medieval AU in which troubled Brother Ben is the lead scribe at the Abbey of St. Augustine in the early 15th century under his uncle, Abbot Luke.  Oblate Brother Finn has just returned to his home monastery of Debre Damo after travelling to Marrakech to take delivery of a gift from the King of England to the Hatse of Ethiopia. Reyna/Rey/Reymund (you'll see) is a determined, kind-hearted servant girl, sold to a disagreeable merchant in her home country of Spain, longing and hoping for something better.  That's how they start.  They are going to discover how much more they really are and how much they need each other.  Mystical battles, angels and demons, beautiful manuscripts to make the heart sing, and Ben's soul in the balance.  How will they save him from the demon that plagues his dreams?





	1. Prologus

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: I am not an expert in most of these areas, especially medieval Africa and Ethiopian history and culture, but I've done my best on the research. Any errors or inconsistencies in the work are mine. This work in no way implies that Ethiopians or the Coptic Church are the enemy; the First Order does not exist in this work. The enemy is singular and entirely mystical (with a few influenced human minions), though a few more corporeal foes may eventually appear. I do not speak or write Amharic, and researched only the few words that will be used in this work. Any references to these places and cultures are intended as respectful homage.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy this. Many of the characters we love will appear, some more obvious than others. If you see someone, let me know! Credit for this idea goes entirely to leoba (leofgyth on Tumblr), as does any manuscript or scriptorium expertise. Couldn't do it without flypaper-brain, the absolute best at encouragement, enabling, embellishment, editing, and enthusiasm. Please excuse if this work emerges slowly; it's sort of turning into an epic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue, in which we begin to know our principals as well as how and why they are drawn together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was absolutely enchanted with the monastery of Debre Damo when I came across it while researching. A braided leather rope is still the only way up there, there are still monks active at this monastery, and only recently has even a female animal been allowed up onto the plateau (a cow, I believe). It is a fascinating place historically, geographically, and in all other ways.

The familiar sight of the plateau ahead added wings to Brother Finn’s weary feet. He’d had to leave his mule behind long ago. Looming suddenly out of the night was Debre Damo, the only home he’d ever known. He loved it down to the very stones; its rich history, its isolation and its soaring proximity to the heavens. That love, though, once pure and untouched by any other concerns, was colored now by the knowledge he’d gained of the wider world. He had traveled now, across distances unheard of, to places he couldn’t possibly describe to the cloistered brethren within. He’d seen the Rock of Gibraltar with his own eyes. He’d been to Marrakech and back. It made him a little sad to think that he had grown so much while home remained the same. But that was a thought for prayer and meditation.

For now, his mandate was to rest here at home, briefly, and report to the abbot before delivering the work that had been entrusted to him. He was proud of this task and his success in completing it. His scholarship and facility with languages had been praised by the abbot, to a degree that Finn found embarrassing, when news that the Hatse was seeking a messenger had reached them here. The priest-king of their land, heir to Presbyter Johannes himself, needed a trustworthy soul, and he had been chosen! It was nearly unheard of for a monk to leave this place. He still wasn’t certain how he had been selected or how permission had been granted, but the trip had been a gift from God and the most amazing experience of his life.

A few owls serenaded him as he approached the bottom of the cliff. Someone would be there to man the rope. The brothers had promised him that one of them would keep vigil there until he was back safe among the brethren. He was not ashamed of having shed tears over that kindness.

He stopped at the foot of the cliff below the spot where he knew the rope lay. _“Selam!”_ he called, voice clear in the still darkness.

A few beats, and he heard a well-loved voice call “ _Selam, wenidime!_ Hello, my brother!” It was Brother Novenario; so named as the last of nine children, an oblate just like himself. They’d shared a room in the dormitory for years, the closest of friends. A hissing noise announced the deployment of a braided leather rope; checking to make sure his precious burden was safe in his satchel, he began the ascent.

What seemed like ages later, muscles burning, he reached the top. He was greeted with much back-thumping and cheerful examination, then held out at arms’ length. “Let me look at you. Well, you don’t seem to have taken any harm out there in the world, brother. You must tell me of all the wondrous sights you have seen. But first; food, drink, rest and prayer. Was your mission successful?” Novenario’s eyes searched his face. The sounds of chanting, accompanied by drums and sistra, drifted across the plateau along with the scent of frankincense, pure and evocative.

“It’s so good to see and hear you again, brother! Yes, it was. I’ve brought a gift from the King of England himself. I’ll have to go again tomorrow to send it on its way to the Hatse, long may he reign for the glory of God. Look, my friend!”

He couldn’t contain his pride. He drew the gorgeously bound and jeweled volume out of his satchel, heavier than he would have thought for its size, and unwrapped the fine cloth that protected it. He opened it so Novenario could drink in the beautiful illuminations and the unusual marginalia, both of which he hadn’t been able to resist studying during the journey back from Marrakech. It was a copy of the Gospels of St. Augustine, the Englishman had told him when he received the book in Marrakech; wondrous in the precision and artistry of its lettering, with angels and demons and creatures of all kinds bordering its pages. He'd opened it to the Gospel of Luke.

The Evangelist was depicted as a wise and diligent scribe, haloed as he did God’s work. He was accompanied by his customary symbol of a winged bull. But here the artist had allowed himself some creative leeway; this bull resembled an older man, who seemed displeased with the world. There was a suggestion of greying hair and a beard. The eyes were searching, as though you’d got yourself in trouble, and the wings were tiny and ineffectual. He thought he might like the scribe who’d created this book.

He was prepared for an intense response; Novenario was as interested in all things scholarly as he was, but not for the reaction that followed. His friend’s eyes leapt from picture to picture as he turned the pages, then suddenly narrowed. He’d reached the depiction of a demon that appeared in the margins throughout the book; a threatening creature always surrounded by flames and smoke.

“Who made this?!”, he demanded. “This is forbidden. No outsider is to know the form of the Infiltrator, he that is wreathed in flames and cloaked in soot, the hidden adversary. He is to live only in the minds and spirits of those lucky enough to hear his voice from the depths. Who gave this to you? Traitor!” He snatched the book from Brother Finn’s hands, and to his further horror, drew a blade from within his robes. He began muttering. Finn didn’t think the words were meant for him. “Yes, of course. He must be eliminated. And the illicit images burned. Our work cannot be done if you are revealed to the world. We must work secretly from within. Fire is cleansing. I understand, my Lord.”

The knife was waving between them, glinting dangerously in the torchlight. TORCHLIGHT. Finn couldn’t let Novenario destroy the book, this gift meant for the Hatse himself, this divinely inspired work. He reached to take the book back from his friend. Novenario must be ill. He would have be restrained until prayer and medicine could heal him.

Finn felt a sharp pain stitch its way across his belly as they struggled for the book. He stood stock-still for a moment, frozen as he watched a line of red appear at the front of his robes. He put his hand to the wound and found it painted with blood. His brother, his best friend, had just tried to take his life. Their positions reversed as they fought, Finn receiving a few shallow cuts as he tried to hold the knife away from himself and take back the book that seemed to have turned his friend’s mind.

With a wrench and a grunt of effort, he made one last attempt to wrest the volume from Novenario’s grasp and lost his grip. The frenzied monk seemed to hang in the air for a few seconds, knife in one hand, book in the other, no hand left to try for the rope. Brother Finn reached to save his friend and was left holding nothing as Brother Novenario disappeared into the darkness in eerie silence. He didn’t even scream.

Finn knew it was useless. It was a fall of 20 pics or more. Still, gut stinging with the wound he hadn’t had time to properly feel, let alone examine; mind reeling with the events of the past few minutes, he slid as quickly as he dared down the braided cord. What he found at the foot of the cliff broke him. He could do nothing for a time but sit, arms wrapped around his knees, keening as he rocked back on his heels and stared at the ruin of his friend and brother.

Reason asserted itself before too long. He had to at least get the book. Then see if he could explain what had happened here. That would be hard. Who was going to believe that a book had driven Novenario mad? He wouldn’t believe what he’d just seen himself if it hadn’t happened to him. The truth. Truth was the best course.

He found the book a few feet away, mercifully intact aside from a few loose pages and a stray gem or two, which he carefully collected. The wooden boards of its binding, covered in leather, had cracked but had faithfully protected the contents. He reached for it without thinking, leaving a red imprint of his own hand on the leather of the cover. And as he touched it, images began to invade his mind.

He saw a great, looming figure which seemed to be formed of smoke and ash. He saw a young man, pale of face and dark of hair, saturnine, haunted. He saw a slender figure, like a ray of light, something like a sword in its fist, step between the young man and the...demon. There was no other word. The young man, now faltering under a rush of dark wings, the radiant being unfurling great pinions of its own; they were doomed without his help.

He saw oceans between them; he could smell the salt air, as he had on his great journey. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know what he was meant to do or the reason for their fight, but he knew he must be beside them when it happened. He knew, without any idea how, that he must find the one who had penned this book and that this would lead him to the confrontation for which he was destined. And he knew that they would fail without him.

He spared a moment to mourn. He mourned his brother and friend. He mourned the peace of the simple life he’d led. He mourned this place, the life’s work of Abuna Aregawi, called Za’Mikael, guided there by the Archangel Michael himself, the jewel of the church and his heart’s home. He doubted he would ever return. Then he shook himself out of his remaining fugue, bound his wound with strips from the edge of Novenario’s ruined robe, and packed the book back in his satchel. He spared a last glance for the complex atop the outcropping, and loped off toward Aksum. He had work to do.

…

Rey was scrubbing the floor on hands and knees, edging ever closer to the door so she could hear the master talking business. They were talking and haggling late into the night, and she was bone-tired, but she got her education where she could find it. The master certainly wasn’t going to pay for it. She knew his motto by heart, what the other merchants called him when he wasn’t listening: Nunca plata, siempre oro.  Never silver, always gold. Silver just wasn’t good enough for him. So she lurked in doorways and listened to the talk. She was beginning to pick up some Latin as he spoke with foreign merchants from the four corners of the world; not much, but something was always more than nothing. Maybe that could be her motto. She was tired of living on scraps.

And then it hit her. Her soul was filled with light. She rose up to her knees alone, as though held aloft by the vision pinning her in place. Strange figures and fantastic beasts danced across her inner eye. A dark figure, somehow sad, struggled with a bigger, more dangerous foe that whispered in its ear. She wanted cry out not to listen, to fight, to call on the warrior who stood nearby waiting. She saw water, vast, immeasurable distances of churning water that lay between her and the one who needed saving. She’d heard talk of ocean voyages, but she herself had never seen the sea. She felt as though she wanted to fly, to join the fight, as though she could grow wings, like the falcon she’d once seen on the arm of a fine lady. But how could she help? She was no one.

And she saw words. She knew they were words. She couldn’t read, but she’d seen the master’s business papers often enough. She had no idea what language it was; she didn’t even know the shapes of letters. Despite this, the pages continue to compile themselves in her mind, beasts and men and other, stranger shapes cavorting across the phantom text until they settled themselves into their places in the margins. It was an entire book. She could see it, touch it, smell it in her mind, turn the pages in her inner vision. She had no idea what it was or why it had come to her.

The *splat* of the soapy brush hitting the floor brought her back to her senses. She was still kneeling, arms outstretched to either side like wings. The master and the merchants he’d been meeting were standing in the doorway staring at her.

“What are you doing? Stupid thing.” He casually backhanded her. “Always lazing about and daydreaming. One of these esteemed gentleman could have slipped in the water and the soap.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I was... stretching my back, sir. Sorry, sir.” She mustn’t let anyone know what she’d seen. They’d think her mad, or fiend-ridden, or worse...she’d be accused of witchcraft. She would be quiet, and obedient, and still, and go unnoticed. She’d gotten very good at that in the years since her mother and father had given up and sold her to this disgusting bastard.

“No one cares about what you’re doing or your back, you useless creature! Make sure the floors are safe for these important visitors and then scuttle off to busy yourself where we don’t have to look at you, else you’ll not eat tonight.” She hated him so much. But his business was her only means to learn.

She would keep learning, and watching, and someday she would have her chance. She’d seen some women who were on their own, merchants who ran their own shops. She’d learned a lot about leather goods over her years of servitude and she rather thought being a glover would suit her. She pushed her fear and the images still spinning in the back of her mind aside and went to work with a will. If she made herself indispensable, he would have to take her with him on his next buying trip. He was far too lazy to do for himself and far too cheap to hire another servant.

…

Brother Ben woke with a start, thrashing and fighting the empty air. He was safe, here in his dormitorium in the Abbey of St. Augustine, in Canterbury where he belonged. The dream had been different this time. Why?

He’d had these dreams for as long as he’d had conscious memory. Always the same figure; a towering, looming creature of smoke and fire, bending to pin him with its gaze. Always he knelt, caught between apprehension and loathing, but somehow drawn to the creature and the secrets he thought it could teach him. Always he was masked and cloaked, his own face and form hidden even from himself. And always, always alone.

But not tonight. It had started the same way. He knelt, awaiting whatever the creature might have to say, awaiting the images that would pour into his mind, crawl behind his eyes and leak out from his pens and brushes no matter how he tried to resist them. If he so much as thought of trying to break free, to flee or wake, his soul would fill with fire and pain.

But then a figure ran out onto the stark, black stage where it inevitably began. Willow-slim, androgynous, and filled with a light that hurt his eyes but filled him with such longing that he couldn’t look away. The figure interposed itself, standing between him and his tormentor, and he feared that its light would be dimmed, smothered by smoke and ash and darkness. And all those things came, swirling about the...angel, it had to be, with sword of light in its hand. A guardian angel...he didn’t deserve that kind of attention.

He feared for the angel, but it was joined by what could only be a warrior-monk; sturdy, robed and hooded, a faintly glowing quarterstaff deployed to deadly effect against the lesser threats, leaving his angel guarded and free to concentrate its efforts, its light holding back the darkness that threatened to consume him. The angel stood, looking small and frail. And then it opened its wings, like a glorious feathered cloak of light, like the pinions of an immense falcon. As the angel shook its wings into place, his mask was hit with a mist of droplets. Seawater? When he woke, his face was wet and tasted of salt. It was his first glimmer of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist a medieval AU. Thanks leoba / leofgyth for putting up with my changes to your excellent idea. Thanks flypaper-brain for always making it more Star Wars. This is turning out to be shockingly fun to write. I am going to play with/fudge time a little here (the Portuguese invasion of Ceuta, for instance) when it helps or enhances the story, so apologies to any strict historians.
> 
>  
> 
> **Manuscript note:**
> 
>  
> 
> The Gospels of St. Augustine came to England very early in the Mission from Rome (which began at the tail end of the sixth century); they were, in any case, in Canterbury by the mid-seventh century and by the time our story takes place would have had a position of honor on the altar of the Abbey church. The manuscript is now at Corpus Christi College Cambridge, [and you can see it here](https://parker.stanford.edu/parker/catalog/mk707wk3350). It has an impressive full-page painting of St. Luke on folio 129r, although the ox in it is much less dour and has larger wings than the ox in our imaginary copy. 


	2. Conventus et Memoriae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings and Memories. In which we see travel, history, memories, guilt, and two of our principals meeting. We learn that Rey is kind-hearted , resourceful, and stronger than her beginnings; that Finn is adaptable and protective, and that Ben wants to be free but doesn't believe he deserves forgiveness. We knew these things, but it's always good to discover them again.

Rey couldn’t believe she was here. She’d finally convinced Nunca Plata, the bane of her existence and her only hope of bettering herself, that he needed her with him to cook and clean and fetch and carry. It wasn’t as though he paid her, after all. “It costs dear to keep you” was one of his favorite things to tell her. That, and “Earn your keep!”. She’d done her best to be the perfect servant; efficient, unobtrusive, never a hint that she had wants or needs or an inner life of her own, let alone the colorful pages that danced before her eyes at night or the burning need to protect something she couldn’t even name. Her, protect something. That drew a bitter laugh.

It could have been worse. He’d never interfered with her in the way of a man with a woman; she didn’t even think that sort of activity ever crossed his mind. And he was too lazy to beat her much. Mostly he just yelled and ranted at her about economies and waste and failed to feed her when he was angry. But it was worth it the day they took ship. It was like a miracle, and the most amazing experience of her life.

She’d never seen the sea. (The pictures and visions that lived inside her whispered that she had, of course she had. It lay between her and the soul that needed saving.) Not with her waking eyes. She found everything about it enchanting; the impossible blue stretching to meet the blue of the sky, the palm trees swaying, the cries of gulls. She’d had to ask the master what those birds were; he’d found her ignorance endlessly amusing.

The trip was over almost before it began, as they reached Ceuta. She was disappointed; she’d discovered that she liked being aboard ship. She found the motion of the vessel curiously soothing and the wind invigorating. It was as though she’d been given wings. She loved the salt spray in her hair and the light reflected on the water and the smell in the air. And she was mesmerized by the great rock that guarded the passage.

All too soon she was back to her usual drudgery. Entrusted with a few small coins, she purchased their food for meals (“Foolish creature! Far too dear at that price!”), cooked for them both (not that she got much), scoured each of their possessions until they shone. She’d learned in her time with the master that he hated to replace anything; hated it like poison. So she’d become adept at repairs--of anything; furniture, harness, cooking vessels, clothing (hers, not his; his raiment was a display of wealth to signal his success to other merchants). She flattered herself that she could fix or use any old, broken thing.

She’d grown fond of their shaggy donkey, who weathered sea travel with his usual phlegmatic resignation, chewing the same few bits of straw down to nothing. The master had wanted him hobbled for the trip, but Rey had taken pity on him and made sure the ropes were loose enough that they slipped off and were soon forgotten. He gave a bellow of protest at being led down the ramp to the shore, but soon settled back down. He seemed to believe that she had a plan and it was his job to get them and their belongings where they were going. The master had a horse, but he seemed to think that she would ruin it somehow, so tending it was the only thing he did for himself.

She’d managed to get the master to take her along for the actual haggling and buying; he’d need Bastian, the donkey, to carry the leather he planned to buy. The master and the local purveyors of leather-goods sat drinking mint tea with great ceremony in an outdoor market. She was fascinated at the ritual of it all. The tea was poured from a great height into beautifully worked glasses. Delicate food meant to be eaten with the hands was set out before the wealthy men.

Her stomach rumbled and her mouth watered at the sights and smells. She’d had practically no food today; the master had been in a foul mood after she’d told him of the cost of his breakfast. There hadn’t been enough coin in what he’d given her to buy food for herself. She’d listened to him rant about prices and portions as her stomach gnawed at her backbone. She’d managed a few crusts of bread left over when he was finally sated.

Rey, of course, was left outside during the meal and the business dealings to make sure Bastian and the master’s horse weren’t stolen, but she managed to edge close enough to hear their talk. It started blandly enough, with much talk about the weather, and the crossing, and the good food and drink. When the plates had been pushed to one side, they got down to business.

She listened intently to their banter back and forth as they argued and cajoled and wailed, Nunca Plata and the traders of Ceuta both, that they would be made paupers at this price. They spoke in Latin, and she was pleased to note that she understood a fair amount of it; much of the rest could be filled in with tone and gestures and dramatic facial expressions. She made sure to be diligently tending Bastian in a completely unnecessary way whenever her master or one of the leather-goods merchants looked in her direction.

They’d just concluded the bargaining and were on the point of making an exchange when the soldiers came. The merchants vanished instantly into the surrounding streets and in almost complete silence. The master mounted his horse with surprising agility; he could move quickly when his own skin was at risk. Bastian, with all their possessions on his back, was not nearly so quick or so silent.

By the time she’d untied him and led him into the street, the soldiers were marching and there were screams and the clash of blades. The city had descended into chaos. The master screamed at her to hurry, Bastian bucked and brayed and tried to shake his load, the soldiers shouted at her to get him out of the street. The master’s horse began trying to rear, frightened by the noise. One of the soldiers drew his blade and said this was their last warning; get the beast out of the road or there would be HELL to pay.

The master cursed horse, donkey, and girl all soundly and began beating poor Bastian with his horsewhip. That was the last straw; finally their faithful pack animal had had enough. He bellowed his outrage, snaked his head to one side, and administered a nasty bite to the master’s arm as Nunca Plata drew back the whip for his next blow.

He shrieked, cried “Devil take you both, then; worthless, useless, ungrateful creatures, the two of you!” and spurred his horse to a gallop. She stood dumbfounded, alone in an unfamiliar city with no money, surrounded by soldiers and left to her fate. It was then that she heard the sound of horns.

 

...

Finn crouched in a doorway, cautiously watching the soldiers. One never knew how much protection a monk’s robes would offer. His own familiar white robes over tunic and trousers, and a round hat, grew less recognizable to others as he traveled farther from home. He listened carefully to the local denizens in hopes of more information. His Arabic was almost as good as his Latin now.

It had taken him months to reach this place, as he’d known it would. It was a very different trip without an escort provided by the Hatse. He’d found transportation as he was able. The merchants on these trade routes set great value on someone who could speak many languages, write in a few, and would be willing to perform whatever manual labor was required. He’d found himself a stout staff along the way and made it clear that he was willing to be guard, translator, scribe, laborer, and even handle camels if he must. And he’d done every single one of those things.

Finn had even managed to wangle a brief trip on a dhow on his way to Cairo after he’d had to sell the mule. He wasn’t much of a sailor, but at least he hadn’t suffered the mal de mer.

It had been both fascinating and infuriating to discover that camels were not inherently cooperative, and they had a gait that could churn cream into butter. That had been on the way from Cairo to Zaouila. He vastly preferred guarding the caravan to dealing with those beasts, but when a camel was upset, all hands were needed. He still shuddered when he remembered the spitting.

There had been a few fights in defense of the merchant and his goods. Finn had tried his best not to kill, as God commanded (hence his preferred use of a staff rather than a blade), but he was sure he’d left some sore heads in his wake. The thieves and bandits were just poor, desperate souls, children of God as much as he was himself. He wished them no harm.

From Zaouila he’d made his way north to Tunis with a cargo of gold to be traded for salt. This had involved more camels, to his endless frustration. He’d been glad to see these supplemented with horses as they left the desert behind. He hadn’t had much experience with horses, and was gratified to learn that he seemed to be naturally good with them. They found his presence calming, which made that merchant very happy. He’d offered to take Finn on more permanently. He was flattered, but he had somewhere to be. The merchant was disappointed, but gave him a bonus of coin to help him on his way.

A long, slow slog on foot from Tunis to Ceuta made up the last leg of his trip. Which had landed him here, with impeccable timing, skulking in a doorway to determine as best he could who was here to kill whom.

He’d gleaned enough to know that these were Portuguese invaders. An invasion of any kind was bound to cause chaos; this could be dangerous to him physically, but might also offer an opportunity to get closer to his intended destination. An untended boat, or better yet, a larger ship with no watchman might be just the opportunity he needed.

That thought didn’t last long. It certainly was chaos, but not the kind that was going to be any benefit to him. The city’s defenders had been caught off guard, and Finn watched in horror as they were indiscriminately slaughtered, but he did what he could. A few children would live a little longer after he’d scooped them up off the street and deposited them in the nearest church, and he blessed the dead as he found them (it wasn’t the formal rite they needed, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances). There were too many, in the end. Necessity dictated that he also relieve them of their coin, an act he regretted and for which he murmured apologies all the while.

He was distracted from his unpleasant task by shouting in a language he didn’t know. He glanced over his shoulder to see a portly, angry-looking merchant shaking his fist under the nose of a servant girl as she tried to calm their terrified donkey. The beast kicked wildly, braying its distress as the slender girl attempted to cling to the reins. The merchant stayed on his horse (with some difficulty, given the noise), offering no assistance whatsoever. In point of fact, he was whipping the poor donkey, which only served to agitate it further.

Finn stood still, caught up in watching, transfixed by the drama being enacted in front of him. Portuguese soldiers added to the confusion; he stayed back out of the way as they advanced on the pair and ordered them out of the road. The merchant attempted to argue his way out of trouble while still whipping the poor beast, but eventually one of the soldiers drew his blade and...he wasn’t sure, but he believed the donkey might just have taken a bite out of the angry merchant. The merchant threw up his hands, shouted something unpleasant-sounding, and rode off, leaving girl and donkey to their fate. Finn could hardly believe his eyes. He was a little worried about the poor servant girl, but he heard a horn in the distance. The soldiers cursed, moved into ragged formation, and marched off toward the sound.

The donkey, in the absence of its tormentor, calmed down almost immediately and allowed itself to be led to one side of the thoroughfare. The girl tied the reins to a handy fencepost and paused to wipe the sweat from her face. Her respite was short-lived, however, as a wagon pulled by two oxen came barreling down the same street. The girl clapped both hands to her mouth and darted into the street. He couldn’t imagine what on earth she thought she was doing, until he spotted what she’d already seen; a puppy, whining pitifully in the road.

He was running before he knew he’d even moved; before he had to chance to consider how colossally stupid it was. He had no idea how he made it across before cart and oxen rolled over the spot where they’d been, but a heartbeat later he found himself on the other side of the street on the ground next to the donkey, girl and dog both in his arms. And wasn’t THAT interesting. He didn’t believe he’d ever been this close to a female before.  
…

Ben was in his favorite place in the world. The scriptorium was his sanctuary. He loved the generous diamond-patterned windows open to the morning’s perfect light. His feet knew every stone and foot-worn pathway of the scriptorium floor. He loved the benches and stools, carved with leaves and flowers and vines for no other reason than to give joy to the eye. He let his own eyes linger on the shelves lining the warm gray stone walls; their contents like a gathering of old friends, familiar and dear and full of stories heard many times but still well-loved.

He knew their weight in the hand, the sound of the pages as they turned, and the brightly colored covers, the leather soft with years of handling or stiff with the pride of a new finished work. Ben took great joy and care in selecting the volumes from the library that would be displayed here on the shelves of the scriptorium as example and education for scribes beginning to learn their work.

This was the perfect heart of the abbey. It was placed near the calefactory so that it was never too cold for the work; he had often stayed working so long that it had become its own form of meditation, forgetting his body’s need for food and sleep. He would begin thinking of the text as a whole, the great work that he must transcribe so it would not be lost to the world, or so the world could see it in a new and different way.

Then his focus would narrow, down to the chapter or verse on which he was working, then further down to a single page, a word, and finally to each individual letter. On his best days, each single letter seemed to fill his vision, a great labor all of itself, to be given his full attention and formed as close to the perfection in his mind as his all too human fingers could manage.

He shook his head. Today was not his best day. He hadn’t been able to lose himself in the morning’s prayers, and had slipped away unnoticed (he hoped) to come here while he could still be alone. The dreams had plagued him again. They always did, but on days like today they lingered in his mind like the haze of smoke after a building had caught fire. He pushed that thought away, and the sounds and smells and pain that went with it. Those memories would not help his concentration. He reached for inspiration, but found nothing beyond the tatters of his dark dreams. So be it.

No laborious and devoted preparation today, the division of quires and drypoint sketches he loved as part of making the text perfect, as God’s Word should be. He wouldn’t give his great work less than his full devotion. Today, here alone and unauthorized, he would draw what was in his heart and let his doubts, fears, and desperate hopes out onto the page. Perhaps this would clear his mind and fit him for his real, holy work by the time the other brothers finished their prayers.

He secured a parchment, just an old leaf saved and scraped for re-use, to the writing desk in front of him, its pointed top like the roof of a house. He selected a quill and sharpened it with his penknife, taking extra care with each motion in the hope that his mind and soul would settle to the work. He gathered ink bottles, letting his hands choose the colors on their own; iron-gall black first, of course, to draw the lines and curves that he could fill with color. Brexilium for rose, a choice he wouldn’t ordinarily have made. Cinnabar was next, for fiery red. Ochre, the brown of the earth from which it was made. Lead white, to soften and blend the other colors into gentler versions of themselves; and orpiment, the best mimic of sunlight’s radiance. He chose brushes for each, and now his fingers itched, images demanding to be let out onto the page.

He was halfway through the sketch, black ink and lost sleep imprinting themselves together onto the parchment, when he realized what was taking shape. An angel manifested itself before him, slender and delicate, but strong, arms raised in warding and protection. Its face was turned from him to confront the enemy, just as in his dream. One of its hands wielded a sword of light, like the light that surrounded it, shield and weapon in one. Its wings were caught in the act of opening, half-furled still. His hands knew every lambent feather.

Ben knew what was next. Next to the angel, beside it as always, his pen sketched a warrior. Like the angel, the warrior faced the foe, his face hidden from Ben’s inner and outer eyes. He was sturdy as an English oak, stance wide, braced and ready for any threat to the angelic figure he protected. A simple wooden staff was his only weapon, but he wielded it with serious intent and consummate skill. He was dressed in dark monastic robes and cowled, a cincture about his waist just like Ben’s own. Only his short, dark hair could be seen. His pen stopped short, obeying his mind’s refusal to depict their enemy. No. He would keep these two for himself today. He could do that much. The enemy had invaded his work often enough. This picture was just for him, to remind him that he was no longer alone.

He was contemplating the parchment, sanded and dried, and wondering how best to proceed when he heard the creak of the scriptorium’s door. This didn’t alarm him unduly until his uncle’s voice spoke from the entrance.

“Nephew. You seem...bedeviled this morning. We missed you at prayer.”

Abbot Luke’s voice was mild, but his choice of words and the direction of Ben’s own thoughts this morning sent him stumbling up from his stool. He _was_ bedeviled; and he didn’t want his uncle the Abbot taking too close a look at his idle morning illustrations. The trailing edge of his sleeve caught the bottle of iron-gall ink, sending it crashing to the stone floor. His cheeks flushed with shame; he knew better than to be so careless with his tools, and the ink was dear in labor and cost.

His uncle frowned. “Peace. Still yourself before you bring the whole room down on us both. Stay there.”

They kept sand and sawdust handy for accidents like this; Abbot Luke crossed the room and returned with a handful to throw on the black puddle growing beside the desk.

Ben managed to turn the leaf over to its blank side while his uncle’s back was turned. There wasn’t time for more. He busied himself tending to the spilled ink and choosing another from their supply of the black to replace the one he’d broken. His uncle watched him all the while; Ben felt clumsy under that piercing eye.

“What ails you, nephew? Don't think to lie; I could hear you calling out in the night. Attendance at prayers and services is your duty, and not to be abandoned when you are moved to write.”

Ben wanted to say "I could hear you too." Abbot Luke was moving stiffly this morning. Ben didn't have to ask why; he'd heard the sound the lash made as it struck flesh, over and over. His uncle believed that mortifying the body would improve the soul. Being the abbot’s nephew afforded him a few privileges, one of which was a private cell next to his uncle’s own quarters. This came at a price, however; the nights Abbot Luke resorted to the flagellum for the improvement of his soul were not Ben’s most restful. But such things were not to be acknowledged aloud.

“I...felt ill.” This was true. His dreams often left him with a headache and a roiling belly. “I thought the quiet here might help my headache. And I thought perhaps I’d create an illustration of this morning’s sermon. The Prodigal Son has always been one of my favorites.” That was true, too. He loved to hear about that endless, gentle forgiveness, even if he didn’t expect he deserved to receive it himself. He waved a hand to indicate the tools he’d set out and the now seemingly blank parchment.

“Very well. Don’t make a habit of it. We both know the consequences when we fail to render unto God the things that are God’s. I’ll expect to see you attending services in their entirety from this point forward, Brother. Dominus vobiscum.” He sketched the sign of the cross in the air and left the room as abruptly as he’d entered it. Only his uncle could make those last words sound more like a threat than a blessing.

Ben didn’t need a reminder of the cost of failing God in the service of his own selfish desires. He’d learned them young; his father, gone far too soon. His fault. But he’d thought just this once, God would understand. He thought after all this time, he and the Lord both understood that the images and letters he formed as perfectly as his all too human faults allowed were, for him, their own form of prayer. Maybe when he’d completed his great work, when he’d finally rendered the Word of God as perfectly as it deserved, he could be forgiven the consequence of indulging his talent.

This time he couldn’t fend off the memories. As he sat back on the stool, quill at the ready, they came roaring at him like the flames that were always their conclusion.

…

He’d been twelve years old. It was a beautiful late October day. Uncle Luke, not yet abbot of St. Augustine’s, had been visiting his twin sister and her family. Ben was expected to accompany his uncle in the Divine Office at each of the canonical hours in order to further his religious education. After stumbling his way bleary-eyed through Lauds without any real idea what was happening, he’d decided to be conveniently difficult to locate when it came time for Prime. He might very well be destined for a career with the Church; after all, where else could he practice the calligraphy and illumination that had come to be his consuming passion? But prayers at six in the morning with his Uncle examining him for any sign of fault or inattention were like torture for a young boy on a day like this.

So he packed up his drawing supplies, a lantern, and the few precious pieces of parchment he’d been allowed and headed to the stables. His mother had been reading over her psalter, and she’d shown him the beautiful illustrations of unicorns and horses that galloped over some of its pages. It had been her mother’s before her, she said, created by the sometime hermit and friend of his grandparents for whom he'd been named. Ben drank in the elegant animals, the vibrant colors, the caparisons with their heraldic patterns. Even the cart horses and plow horses were drawn and inked with care and a love for those who worked the land. His fingers ached to try it himself; he thought if he studied the horses, he could even improve on the work.

He found a stool in an unoccupied stall and set up his drawing board, parchment, quill and ink. It didn’t take long for him to be completely absorbed in the work. Gradually the parchment filled with arched necks, flaring nostrils, and bodies made for the joy of the gallop. He couldn’t wait to show his mother how well he’d captured her palfrey, delicate but strong. Each individual strand of flowing mane and tail seemed to come to life under his fingers. Ben lost all sense of time, focused on the lines flowing from his quill like a stallion champing at the bit. He didn’t notice the light changing as dawn approached. Hunger and thirst went unnoticed, and he went undisturbed.

It was the sound of a stable boy whistling as he arrived to begin the morning’s work that told Ben exactly how long he’d been there. Quills, ink, parchment, and drawing board were all hastily packed. He snuck out of the stables before he could be seen. He was just starting back toward the manor house when he heard the shouting and the crackle of flames. God in Heaven. He’d kicked over the lantern.

The flames spread quickly through the straw and soon the wood and thatch of the stable itself were alight. The rest was a nightmare of buckets drawn from the stream, horses screaming as they caught fire, the folk of the estate frantic to help. Father had come running from inspecting the mill and joined in the fight to save beasts and barn alike. He’d seen Ben helping with the buckets and taken a moment to clap him on the shoulder, smile briefly, and say “Good work, son.”

Ben had gone back inside to help lead his mother’s palfrey to safety when the roof started to collapse. It had all happened so fast. He’d had time to hear his father shout “BEN!” and felt a hard shove. That was the last word he’d ever heard Father say; his own name. As he stumbled outside, a sudden rush of smoke and ash had forced his eyes closed; when he opened them again, the barn was in ruins and Father was nowhere to be seen.

Daylight showed the extent of the damage; a cruel display. Most of the horses had been lost; some killed in the fire, some put down as a mercy. Those that remained would never be the same. Padraig, the stable boy, had been killed, trampled by the frantic animals. And Ben’s father was gone. They told Ben’s mother her husband had been crushed by a falling beam, spared a slower death in the flames. They hadn’t had to tell her he was dead. She’d just known.

In the days that followed there were a lot of questions about exactly what had happened and why Ben had been near the stables at all. He’d spared himself nothing, answering each question woodenly and with complete truth. Yes, he’d been avoiding morning prayers with his uncle. He told them about the sneaking, the parchment, the drawings...and the lantern. And then he’d stopped talking at all. He had to be forced to change from the soot-stained clothes that reeked of smoke, reminded to eat. It was noticed and remarked upon that Ben shed no tears at his father’s funeral; only the occasional closing of his eyes and tremble of his jaw revealed that he was aware of the proceedings.

His mother did her best to coax him back to the routine of his daily life; but there were so many demands on her time now that she had the estate to manage all on her own, and her grief was as deep as his own. She tried in vain to get Ben to talk about the fire, about his father, about his lessons; anything at all. Eventually she gave up trying to get him to say anything beyond “Yes, mother” or “No, mother” and left him to do as he would. Uncle Luke stayed on for a few weeks, of course, and he pressed Leia to let him take Ben to the abbey to learn and heal and make use of his God-given talent. It would be a sin to waste such skills, and using them in the service of God and the church would be a form of expiation.

Ben was as surprised as anyone else when he spoke up in the middle of supper. “I’m going with Uncle Luke. I’ll be entering the abbey as a postulant.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “I’ll go pack my things. I won’t need much. Sir. Madam.” He bowed to Luke and his mother in turn. He left before he could see whether he’d added to his mother’s sorrows. He couldn’t stand to see her cry, to see his father’s empty seat, to walk by the ruins of the stable again. The sound of flames and screaming horses filled his dreams and waking hours both. A lifetime of service to God might just make up for the cost of his sin. He just hoped Canterbury was far enough away that he could stop seeing his father’s face and his mother’s tears.  
…

Ben blinked his own threatened tears away. He looked down at the parchment still secured to the desk. Grinning crookedly up at him was a perfect portrait of his father, looking just as he had the last time Ben had seen him smile. He was surrounded by flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was lovely to describe a scriptorium through the eyes of someone who truly loves it. It was fun to discover that Finn hates camels and is good with horses, that Rey is loyal to creatures of all kinds, whether she's traveled with them or just met them, and to see Ben learning that he is not alone.
> 
> **Manuscript note:**
> 
> One of the great joys in this fic is basing the manuscripts in the story on real manuscripts that survive in libraries today. In the previous chapter we discovered that the manuscript in Finn's possession is a later copy of the 6th century [Gospels of St. Augustine](https://parker.stanford.edu/parker/catalog/mk707wk3350) (the original is now at Cambridge; the later copy is imaginary). In this chapter we are introduced to Leia's family Psalter, which is based on the [Luttrell Psalter](http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/Viewer.aspx?ref=add_ms_42130_f070r), now at the British Library (take a minute to check it out - it is wild). We'll learn more about that one as the story progresses. The manuscript Ben is working on in the scriptorium - which he considers his life work - is another imagined copy, this one based on the so-called [Old English Illustrated Hexateuch](http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/Viewer.aspx?ref=cotton_ms_claudius_b_iv_f019r), also at the British Library.
> 
>   
> Left: [Luttrell Psalter](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Luttrell_Psalter_\(c.1325-1335\)_-_BL_Add_MS_42130); Right: [Old English Illustrated Hexateuch](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_English_Hexateuch)


	3. Tactibus et Itineribus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touches and Travels; In which Brother Finn and Rey decide to travel together. In which we encounter a crazed bovine, sail across to Spain, learn that living off the land in Gibraltar is harder than it sounds, and most importantly, in which Rey and Brother Finn learn that their mission is shared (with help from a small orange and white puppy).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: Mediaeval Baebes, I cannot recommend them enough, their version of Salva Nos is gorgeous.
> 
> Included as always are loving descriptions of manuscripts and all things medieval (@leoba), food and visions (@LoveThemFiercely, me!), and lots of StarWarsness and holding of hands. (@flypaper-brain).
> 
> We mostly know where this is going.

The struggle began as soon as they hit the ground.  “What are you _doing_ ?  Let _go_ of me!”, she yelled.  In Latin. Interesting.  Everything about her was interesting.

“I thought I might get you out of the way of the wagon”, he responded in the same language.  He would have thought that was obvious.

“I know very well how to get out of the way, I don’t need you to teach me.  Or push me.   Let GO!” She shoved him away, both of them still on the ground. It was emphatic enough that he got the point.

Left to his own devices, he’d’ve held her forever.   But it was her choice. He shook his head. What kind of thought was that for a monk?

They stood up and dusted themselves off.  The puppy was at their feet, making whimpering noises.  As he picked up the animal and handed it to the girl, an enraged bellow echoed down the street.  What now?!

Evidently none of Ceuta’s livestock was weathering the invasion well.  This time it was a cow; a cow who was running full-tilt down the side of the street and straight toward the two of them. He had time to notice that it seemed to have caught a stray arrow, and then it was on them.  Finn grabbed the girl by the hand, swung her around behind him into the nearest wall, and braced himself in front of her. The last thing he heard for a few minutes was her indignantly saying “Stop PUSHING me!”.

Apparently he’d been knocked unconscious during those lost minutes, because when his eyes blinked open, he was lying on the ground several feet away and was almost certain she’d just slapped him.  She seemed to be undamaged. “Are you all right?”, he asked.

She threw him an incredulous look.  “Yes!” The girl offered him a hand and he took stock of their situation as she pulled him to his feet.  It must have been a glancing blow. He seemed to be mostly intact. The puppy was now cowering under the feet of the donkey, who was placidly chewing at some grass growing around the fencepost.  All the way from Aksum to Ceuta, and these were possibly the strangest ten minutes he’d experienced in recent memory.

“Well...good.  God go with you, then.  I need to find a ship to Spain.  I have an important mission.” Finn picked his staff up off the ground.  He shook his head to clear it and regretfully prepared to leave the company of this infuriating, fascinating creature.  He had somewhere to be. He had an angel to find and a soul to save.

…

Rey eyed the stranger’s back as he walked away.  She looked down at the puppy, and sideways at Bastian.  An important mission, he’d said. He might have money for the journey, then.  And she had nothing, as always. But she DID know the south of Spain. It was all she knew.  She needed to get back there. Despite her protestations, he hadn’t touched her except to help get her out of harm’s way.  Not that she’d needed it.

Rey called out “WAIT!”.  The stranger turned. She swallowed.  She had to trust someone, even if only a little.

“I can guide you through Spain.  I get can you to Seville. Do you speak the language there?  I will be your guide; for passage for me and mine.” She indicated Bastian and the puppy.

The stranger considered her.  She knew she didn’t look like much; just a skinny girl in much-mended clothes.  “You are from Spain? My destination lies elsewhere. But I must travel through Spain, yes.”  She wondered where he’d started his trip. Rey was pretty good at picking up accents, and his was not from anywhere around here.  It wasn’t flavored with Arabic like the local folk, and he wore a crucifix.

“Then yes, I can help you.  I was born in Spain. Do we have an agreement?”  She extended a hand. He raised an eyebrow (that was fair, she’d spent most of their brief acquaintance so far protesting his touch) and extended his in return.

As their palms met, oddly, she heard chanting in Latin and smelled frankincense.  It reminded her of the services Nunca Plata had sometimes allowed her to attend. In the church, everything was rich and beautiful and bathed in light, and no one but God was owed her time or labor.  She was the same as everyone else, just a soul with the promise of Heaven.

…

He did need a guide.  This girl had already shown that she was fearless and kind and resourceful.  So he agreed without hesitation. As he shook her hand, the smell of frankincense reminded him instantly of home; the feeling of belonging that he’d realized he was going to miss more than anything.  He heard voices raised in chant, calling “Salva Nos, Stella Maris.” It had to be a sign. He was on the right road and she would guide him.

…

Ben looked up from his work.  There they were again. Small and hardly recognizable except to him, the warrior and the angel clasped hands just at the corner of the passage he’d been illuminating.  He thought he heard chanting (not unusual in an abbey, of course). But the ' _Salva Nos'_ \--Save Us, Star of the Sea--wasn’t a common prayer in this place. It must mean something.  He would let them stay. They wouldn’t mean anything to readers of this work, but they meant everything to him.

 

…

Rey shook off the strange sensations.  “Where are you headed at the end of your road, then?” she asked.  “Wait. I don’t even know your name. If we’re going to be traveling together, I’ll need something to call you.”  She wondered if his name would be as intriguing as he was.

“Of course.  And I you. My name is Brother Finn.  I’m pleased to meet you. And you are?”  He gave a short bow.

“Wait...I know my Latin isn’t the best, but your name is End?”  That was unusual. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. And he was a monk.  Good.

A blush decorated his cheeks.  “It’s short for something else.  It doesn’t matter. And you are?”, he repeated.  All right. It was none of her business.

“My name is Rey.  Also short for something else.  It doesn’t matter.” She wasn’t about to admit that before her mother and father had sold her without a second thought, they’d named her Reyna, a queen.  It wasn’t something she cared to contemplate often.

He smiled.  “Brother Finn and Rey it is, then.  Do these fine companions of yours have names as well?” He gestured to Bastian and the puppy.

“The donkey is Bastian. That’s short for something else too.”  “It doesn’t matter”, they said at the same time. That made them both laugh.  “He’s faithful and reliable, but I wouldn’t recommend making him upset. He’s very unpleasant when he’s upset.   This one…” She picked up the puppy, coat spotted and circled in orange and white. “We’ve just met. He doesn’t have a name yet.  Poor little bebé.” Brother Finn looked puzzled at the Spanish word. She wasn’t sure how one said “baby” in Latin. It wasn’t a word Nunca Plata had had much occasion to use, and church Latin had always been impenetrable to her, one of the Church’s mysteries.

“My mission lies in England.  I’ll need to cross the whole of Spain, and find passage…”  He looked overwhelmed. It seemed like he was all alone too.  It was important, she felt, to help those in need as you found them.  Even if there wasn’t much you could do, at least they were no longer alone.  He was pleasant and polite, a man of God sent to do what sounded like important work all on his own.  She could be someone significant, to him.

Rey smiled.  “I can help. I have some ideas.  First we’ll need passage across to Spain itself. Shall we find a fishing boat?”

He nodded.  And they were on their way.

…

Finn hid a smile.  He’d managed to come this far without a guide, though the enormity of the journey still ahead of him was overwhelming.  But she was all alone here, deserted by her master (from what he could see, not a big loss, but still). If it helped her to help him, then he was doing God’s work.  It was true; she had no money, but he had no Spanish. And it would keep her with him longer...there was something about her.

It didn’t take them long to find passage. The hardest part had been finding a boat that would take Bastian and was large enough to do so.  The donkey was no trouble; he thought about balking and gave a token protest, but Finn just threw part of his robe over Bastian’s eyes and gentled him onto the vessel.   Equines of all stripes just seemed to work well with him, and this one was no exception.

Most fishermen were happy to supplement their catch with a bit of coin, especially if you had no objection to helping with the work as well. He didn’t mind hauling nets of fish.   And Rey, it seemed, could do just about anything. She helped salvage frayed rope, she cleaned fish, she mended nets and clothes and whatever else the delighted sailors handed to her.  The passage took longer than it should have; Finn thought mostly because they didn’t want her to leave. It was only a few miles in the end, though, so after a day on the water the fishermen dropped them at Gibraltar with handshakes and back slaps and many thanks.  A good day of honest work was nothing to sneer at, after all.

It was raining and nearly dark when they arrived.  The fishermen had assured them that most days in spring were sunny and dry.  There was already an unspoken agreement that they wanted to avoid people and their natural curiosity and questions as much as they could.  Finn knew he’d have a hard time explaining the precious contents of his satchel, much less his presence here so far from his abbey and why he was traveling in the company of a young woman.  So they explored the rock (a touch difficult, in the rain). Among the hundreds of caves under its imposing surface they found one that suited their needs nicely; above any danger of flooding and big enough for Bastian to share it with them, with a fissure that would draw the smoke from their fire.

He got around to building that fire.  It wasn’t cold, but it was cool enough that they’d be chilled in wet clothes.  Hacking at brush and dwarfish trees with a sharp rock to get enough wood for a decent fire wasn’t a task he would recommend to anyone, but he got it done.  Fire-building wasn’t his strongest skill so it took some time. Rey told him she’d be back shortly, grabbed a few mysterious containers from Bastian’s packload, and slipped out into the rain.  

Finn set out his own bedroll, found one in the rest of Bastian’s load and set it out for Rey, relieved the donkey of his kit and harness (which he seemed to appreciate), and tethered him just outside the cave entrance so he could crop the stubby grasses and shrubs.  By the time he’d finished, Rey was returning and the bags and containers seemed to be full. He wondered how on earth she’d carried it all, and hurried over to take some of her burden. “What’s all this?”, he asked.

She grinned.  “This is supper, and possibly breakfast, and light, and...well, you’ll see.  I try to be worth my keep.” That last sentence brought a bitter twist to her mouth.  He couldn’t understand why she would doubt her own value. So far, he hadn’t seen much she couldn’t do.

The largest of the bags turned out to be full of pine cones.  That seemed a bit mad, until she showed him how to extract the nuts from each cone in turn.  They soon had a pile of the delicious looking things. He reached for some, and she waggled a finger at him.  “Not yet. Trust me.”

She’d had the foresight to set out containers in the rain, which were now full of fresh water.  One of the smaller bags contained a sticky sort of resin, some of which she placed in their fire.  It immediately began to improve from the smoky state the wet wood had created. Rey pulled a couple of large shells out of some of Bastian’s bags (when had she saved those?).  She set one aside, put the pine nuts onto the other and began roasting them on the fire. A ceramic container of water went onto the fire next to them. Before long, they were sipping pine needle tea and eating roasted pine nuts.  It was delicious. Combined with some of the dried dates he still had in his bag and a few bits of dried fish the boat’s crew had given them, it was a feast. Finn was astounded. “How did you learn how to do all this?”

“What, this?”  She shrugged. “It’s nothing.  My master didn’t like to spend money on food, especially for me.”  She shook her head. “So I learned to make do with what I could find.  If I could save him money it was always a good day. Fixing things instead of replacing them, finding food or gathering it instead of spending money; these made him happy.  And if he was happy, it was better for me. When eating that day depends on how well you managed to make do, you learn fast.” She ducked her head and began feeding a few of the pine nuts and bits of dried fish to the puppy.

Finn shook his head.  “I think it’s wonderful.  I am sorry that you’ve had to work so hard to survive, but I am blessed to benefit from your skills.”  He couldn’t help the giant yawn that interrupted the middle of that sentence. Hard work was nothing new, but a day of wrangling fishing nets followed by an evening of chopping firewood without a proper axe had been exhausting.  “I’m sorry. Do you mind?” He indicated his bedroll with a nod of the head. He hoped not. He could barely keep his eyes open.

She waved a hand in that direction.  “Go ahead. I need to think about our route, but I’ll retire soon enough.”  

Finn carefully set his satchel next to the bedroll and lay down.  He was asleep in minutes.

…

Rey sat by the fire, sipping her tea and soaking up the warmth, idly stroking the puppy who lay in her lap, snoring softly, belly full.  She couldn’t seem to settle down. The images that she’d carried with her all this way were parading themselves through her mind. The great, dark figure that leaned down and whispered and threatened and the smaller figure bending under the weight of lies and fear struggled; and she feared the smaller of the two was losing.  The words, so many words, circled and flew and settled down on their pages. How could there be so many words in the world?

She got up, waking the puppy, who stumbled off toward Finn where he lay sleeping.  Bastian was patient, but he’d no doubt had enough to eat by now and it was wet out there.  She led him into the cave and tethered him to a convenient spire of rock at one side. The rest of the pine needles she’d gathered would serve as bedding of a sort.  There were more outside for later.

When she’d finished, she heard a soft growling noise from the back of their shelter.  Puzzled, she walked over to find the puppy chewing on the corner of something protruding from the large satchel Brother Finn carried.  Rey picked up the puppy...he really needed a name, poor thing...and gently scolded him. She gave him a strip of leftover fish skin as a distraction and laid him down near where Bastian had decided to lie down and rest.  Bastian nosed the little beast, _whuffed_ a snort into his coat, and settled back down, apparently content.

Rey was heading for her own bedroll when something sparkled and caught her eye.  What could be in that satchel that shone so bright in the fading firelight? She hesitated, casting a glance at Brother Finn.  He had a nice face, she decided; and looked much younger, relaxed in sleep. He didn’t stir at all as she reached for the satchel; his day’s work had been hard. It took a lot of muscle to move those nets.  It would be a lie to say she hadn’t noticed; and lying was a sin, wasn’t it? It would be best if she made sure the puppy hadn’t damaged whatever was in this bag.

Decision made, she took the whole satchel over by the fire.  It was the work of a few minutes to find a hollowed stone, like a bowl, and use the rest of the pine resin and a twist of cloth to fashion a lamp.  She undid the buckles that held the satchel shut, and couldn’t suppress a gasp. It was so _beautiful._ The book was bound in a warm amber leather.  It was heavy and substantial, filling her lap.  Its corners were graced with golden panels; Rey didn’t know much, but she knew the four Evangelists when she saw them; winged and haloed here with ox and eagle, lion and angel at their sides.  The leather was stamped with flowers; or were they swords? Lions snarled at her from beside them. The cross in the center was encrusted with jewels; pearls like the full moon, and other gems she couldn’t name.  They were the green of new leaves, red as summer roses, and blue as the sea she’d crossed to get here. Only one flaw marred the perfection; a handprint, clear in the light of fire and lamp, and unmistakably imprinted in blood.  

Rey had splayed her own fingers atop the stain before she thought about what she was doing; her mind showed her Brother Finn’s face, shocked, wide eyes filled with tears and pain, his hand...exactly where hers now lay.  She had to know more. It was the work of moments to open the latches that secured the book. Breathing now ragged, she turned the pages at random and found the looming figure of her vision staring up from the incomprehensible jumble of letters.  All this time she’d been afraid she was going mad, but here, here was the very same monster her vision had shown her, the same in the pictures she carried with her everywhere. And to every appearance, that small, still image was _looking_ at her.

She closed the book with a _snap._ Everything she’d seen was real.  How else could that image exist outside the confines of her own mind?  And if that were true, then the half-damned, beleaguered soul, the battle, the warrior...the feeling that she should fight.  How could she even contemplate such a thing? It was impossible. She was no one to save anyone. And she had no wings to fly to his aid.  She was still sitting there, mind racing, heart pounding, wondering whether she should look again, when she heard the soft voice.

“Rey, what are you doing?”

…

She hadn’t even heard him approach.  Odd for one usually so wary. She was white as a sheet of parchment and trembling like a leaf, and on her lap was the book.  The Gospels, his pride and his shame, constant reminder of his mission and the death of his beloved friend. Finn wasn’t sure if he should touch her.  She looked shaken, shocked; but it wasn’t his place. The book, however, was something he needed. It was his burden and his mission and no one else need intervene.  He reached for the book as she looked up, and their hands met on the cover.

Finn was instantly transported.  He didn’t know where he was. His surroundings didn’t matter; he knew what was happening.  There was the young man at a table, face turned to the parchment in front of him as though unable to look away, broad shoulders bent with exhaustion and fear.  There was the demon; a giant wreathed in smoke and flame, flickering as though heaven and earth themselves knew it was _wrong_ and shouldn’t be here.  And there was the angel, wings full of light, facing the foe without a second of hesitation.  Around the angel, around the young man too, swirled wings of smoke and words of darkness; he could almost hear the whispering.  As he stood astonished, the young man raised his head with some effort. All Finn could see clearly were a pair of pleading, dark eyes.   _“Please.”_

With that one word, he was released from the confoundment that had held him frozen.  A thought, and his quarterstaff was in his hands, solid and real. He ran forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with the angel, swinging at the half-seen dangers that surrounded and threatened it.  Nothing should worry this luminescent being; the angel would need all its strength for the demon itself. He would guard the angel so they could save this imperiled soul. In a moment of respite, breath labored, he reached out and took the angel’s hand.  She turned to look at him; yes, she. The angel had Rey’s face.

…

Rey saw the demon.  And she was afraid, so afraid, that it would see her too.  She saw the...figure. A man, kneeling before the creature, head bowed. He held a quill in hand, and a parchment lay on the floor in front of him.  He was drawing the creature, frantically sketching its smoky form, the flames that surrounded it, and its terrifying eyes. And the more ink he put to paper, the stronger it grew.  The man seemed to grow weaker as he worked; finally, he had to put aside his pen as the trembling of his hands grew too great. Rey started to run to him, only to notice the sword in her hand.  She thought it was a sword; but made of light? What was she doing with such a thing? She’d never held a sword in her life; she was no one and nothing, a poor rejected, abandoned thing who couldn’t even save herself.  What business did she have trying to protect anyone else?

The answers came to her out of empty air.  She saw herself, calming poor Bastian and leading him to safety.  There was a slip of a skinny girl, flinging herself into the road to scoop up a helpless puppy.  There she was, full of righteous indignation, extending a hand to someone who lay on the ground. Images of herself, over and over; mending nets and cleaning fish and leaning on the rail of a ship with her hair streaming back in the wind.  She saw herself, striding into the cave she half-knew she sat in now and making a feast out of nothing, to nourish them both. Rey knew whose eyes had seen her like this. Not poor and patched and half-starved and discarded like nameless garbage, but strong and kind and skilled and _regal_ ; like a true queen.  Finn’s eyes showed her what she hadn’t known; that she could do anything, BE whatever was needed.  She could see what he saw, feel what he felt; simple amazement at all she could do and everything she was.  She felt suddenly that she could fight, and maybe save a soul. Rey thought again of the mysterious figure, the man whose hands shook with agony as he gave life to the demon’s image.  She would give much to still the trembling of those hands.

…

Ben had been struggling all day to form the letters of his great work.  He was making progress; but whenever he felt proudest, close to rendering the Word of God in its most perfect form, he could _feel_ his fingers itch to let his adversary out onto the page.  He resisted, God knew; he had work to do, his magnum opus, prayer and redemption.  He prayed, asking God’s grace and forgiveness, and called the images of his saviors to mind; the angel and the warrior, never far from his thoughts.  The images continued to batter at his mind; insistent that his work should carry the image of his tormentor and give it a semblance of reality.

Ben clenched his fists, rejecting the compulsion, trying to return to his proper work with devotion.  He could feel them near, angel and warrior together; he thought he smelled woodsmoke; not the sulfurous, choking smoke that always surrounded the enemy, but a hearth fire, warming and welcoming.  He could feel it chasing away the chill that had settled on his soul; but his hands were shaking now, too much to even hold his pen. He laid down the quill and closed his eyes. He was so tired. But he couldn’t give up; he wasn’t finished yet.  Along with that thought came the feeling of hands atop his own; and under them too, supporting and comforting him. They were here. They were with him. He opened his eyes and looked down at the last thing he’d written. “For where two or three come together in My name, there am I with them.”  Hands steady once again, he picked up the quill.

…

  
Rey and Finn both tumbled backwards, hands tingling as though they’d stood too close to a bolt of lightning.  The two of them lay still, catching their breath; and then in the same moment, Brother Finn of Debre Damo and Reyna of Seville sat up, stared into each other’s eyes, and in unison said “ **_We have to find him.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Manuscript Note**  
>  The cover of Finn's Gospel book is a combination of a few different surviving books. We wanted it to be fancy and bejeweled, but it needed to have enough leather to hold a full handprint. So as the base model we used the cover for the so-called Geese Book, a 16th century liturgical book from Germany ([New York, Pierpont Morgan Library, M. 905](http://geesebook.asu.edu/volumes.htm)). This has a lot of leather, but it's not very fancy. So we took inspiration from the covers of the Lindau Gospels (also from the Morgan, [New York, Pierpont Morgan Library, MS M. 1](https://www.themorgan.org/collection/lindau-gospels); the front cover is late 9th century, the back cover late 8th century). We imagine our manuscript having a cover similar in basic design to the Geese Book, but with the Evangelist corners of the back cover of the Lindau, and with a cross in the middle decorated with jewels similar to those on the front cover. This reflects Ben's interest in taking old designs and making them new (although he wouldn't have made the covers himself).  
>  . . 


	4. Peregrina et Personae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pilgrims and Pretenses: In which Gibraltar gets its own chapter, our Rey becomes Reymund, they share the work and the tears, and the puppy gets a name. Bonds and blooms, pines and plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we don't have time to mourn until we stand still for a minute. And sometimes we don't know what we'll mourn until we've lost it, even if it's not gone forever. But it is beautiful to discover how to give comfort.

When they woke the next morning, the world seemed to be made of flowers. The rain had been kind to Gibraltar. Rey didn’t know what most of them were. She thought the little white ones were called saxifrage. Narcissus and some of the others she knew; but the number and variety of flowers that decorated this seemingly stark and barren rock were bewildering. And it gave her something to look at while she decided how to talk to Brother Finn about last night. They’d gone back to bed without a word, by unspoken agreement, after they’d both touched the book and...she wasn’t sure _what_ had happened. But she knew they did need to talk about it. Because evidently they were both desperate to find someone. The same someone.

For right now, though, it was nice to watch how unexpectedly delighted Brother Finn was with the abundance of blooms. They worked together this time to gather pine cones for breakfast and get the morning’s work out of the way, but he stopped often to run his hand over a particularly beautiful bunch of the tiny irises that speckled the grass, or to inhale the fragrance of freesia. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, or monks, or taking the time to enjoy her surroundings, or anything, really; but his simple joy was infectious. She stopped just to look at an outcropping covered in flowers she’d never seen before. There were rows of lavender petals in spiraling circles along the outside of the bloom, leading to what looked almost like a circle of separate, small, white flowers further inside, each in the shape of a cross, and the deeper purple center of the flower. It drew the eye, almost as though you could fall into it. She picked one, an impulse she couldn’t resist, and gave it to him. There was a tiny echo of last night’s powerful feeling as their hands met. He smiled, though his eyes were serious, and tucked the flower into the band of his hat.

…

Ben found himself smiling as he worked. It was easier, somehow, since his moment of despair; since he’d realized his protectors, his allies were real enough for him to feel while he was awake. The letters seemed to flow, each into their proper place and order, and in the order and the studied preparation for the work he found a much-needed peace. The parchment had already been divided into quires. He was humming as he ruled the pages, gave the illustrations their places, and began the lettering. He was meant to be working on the text today, and so he was; but periodically, wrapped around the outsides of the text and spilling into the boxes meant to be filled with images, he found the parchment dotted with flowers. Irises and freesia and, most of all, a flower for which he had no name; circles and spirals of petals leading to a darker heart. They would be lavender and purple and white, beautiful and entirely unfamiliar; he knew this, though they had no color yet. He had no idea why; but they lifted his heart, like a gift. He thought of the text he’d been creating a few days ago, earlier in the Gospel of Saint Matthew: “Think of the flowers growing in the fields.” It was best, perhaps, not to question it.

…

Finn considered what he was going to say as they worked together. They’d need what they could gather to begin their trip. And Rey, it seemed, would be with him all the way. They hadn’t spoken about it, but he knew. And so did she, he could feel it. He couldn’t tell her about the angel, that she could be, was, might be an angel in his dreams. It sounded mad to him, and he was only thinking it. But suddenly it was no longer about her getting him to Seville. They were bound, somehow. And that sounded mad too.

They made good partners, side by side; work shared was halved, after all. He was enjoying the surprising richness of this place, so barren when seen from the sea. There was nothing to eat, mind you, other than the things Rey had found, so it was just as well that she was so terrifyingly competent. He set a snare every once in a while hoping to catch one of the rabbits they’d seen. It was something he could do to contribute, and the puppy couldn’t live on pine nuts forever, after all.

“Have you decided what you’re going to name him? The puppy, I mean?” He glanced back at the ball of orange-and-white fluff bouncing through the grass after them. The little fellow was amusing himself chasing the yellow butterflies drawn to all these flowers. There were so many! He couldn’t resist touching them and inhaling their fragrance; space at Debre Damo of necessity had been devoted to things they could eat, there on the plateau.

He turned to look back at Rey, only to find her handing him one of the blooms; the large, lavender ones that seemed to be so common here. Touched, he smiled and tucked it into his hatband; but he was reminded of their shared purpose at the touch of her hand.

“I’m going to name him Octavius”, she said with a firm nod of her chin. “You’re right, we need something to call him. And he’s going to need something to eat soon, poor bebé.” She frowned, looking a little worried.

“I thought so too; I’ve set a few snares here and there to catch one of the rabbits here; did you see them? They’d do nicely for him, and us too.” He pointed one out as it ran across their path. “Why Octavius?” That was a curious name for a puppy.

“Oh, thank you, I hadn’t thought of that.” She turned a bit pink. “Octavius is the last word I learned in Latin. Before I met you. I’d been listening to Nunca Plata and the other…merchants? Yes, merchants, while they talked. It was hard to wait until they said the words I needed. The last one I learned was when the master made an appointment for the eighth day of the month. So...Octavius.” She shrugged.

He was astounded. He couldn’t seem to stop being amazed by this woman. “Fair enough. Your Latin is excellent. You learned all of this by listening to that merchant doing business?” He shook his head. “That is truly impressive.”

She looked surprised at that word, as though it would be odd for someone to find her impressive. She shrugged again. “I took my learning where I could find it. It wasn’t as though it would be a good investment for him to educate me.” She indicated their bag of pinecones, carried by the donkey this time. “I think we’ve got enough here. Let’s head back.”

…

Once they’d taken care of preparing food, tending to Bastian, and other chores, there was no more putting off the thing that still sizzled between them. Rey was lingering over her tea when Brother Finn went to his satchel and brought the book. He laid it between them.

“I don’t…” she started to say, just as he said “You were…” They both sputtered to a halt, which cut the tension a bit.

Brother Finn held up a hand. “Let me start. Before it...before we both touched the book, you’d been looking at it. It seemed as though you were frightened. Why did this book frighten you? It’s not the first time this book has disturbed someone.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes had a momentary haunted look. “But what did you see?”

She took a deep breath. This was going to make her sound crazed. No more mad than last night, though. “I saw something that I’ve only seen before in my own mind. I know how that sounds. Months ago, I was washing a floor, and I had a vision. That’s the only word I know for it. Pictures, letters, a man. You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?” Brother Finn nodded. “But what frightened me was the demon.” She couldn’t help but drop her voice to a whisper on that last word. She risked much, telling him this.

“You’ve seen the demon? And the man, too? I thought...I thought I was the only one. I thought I was alone. After Brother Novenario, he…” He stopped and swallowed, closing his eyes. “You said you saw letters, in your mind. Was it this book, or something else?”

She dropped her eyes. “I don’t know, Brother Finn. I can’t read. I was never taught my letters. The pictures, I think, they aren’t exactly the same as those in this Gospel, you said it was?” He nodded again. “But when I opened your book, I saw the demon. He frightened me. Shall I show you?” She picked up the book. She carefully avoided the stain this time, but pointed to indicate it. “Whose blood is this? I know it’s your hand, I _saw_ it.”

His eyes widened. “You saw that?” He shook his head. “It’s my blood. I was injured.” He stopped again and shook his head. “My brother, my friend Brother Novenario, he saw the images as well. He went mad. It’s the only way I can explain it. He tried to kill me. He cut me with his knife. I didn’t know what to do. He probably would have succeeded, except...we struggled for the book, and he fell.” He closed his eyes, a pair of tears making their way down his cheeks. “But when I touched the book then, I saw things too. The man, and the demon. And I think, perhaps, you.”

It didn’t take them long to figure out that they’d seen those things on the same day. Rey opened the book to the page she’d reached. She didn’t like looking at the picture, even now. “This is the picture I saw last night, that frightened me. It still does, but I think I’ll have to get used to it. This is the enemy.” She looked up to see Brother Finn regarding her with serious eyes again. “Isn’t it?”

He nodded. “I think so. And if that is so, then...I owe him a defeat. No one should be driven mad by a beast like that. So this man, his prey, we must find him and free him.”

“What happened to your brother? The one who fell?” She regretted asking the question when more tears followed the first. She set the book aside and put her arms around Brother Finn without a second thought. He stiffened, at first, then relaxed and clung to her.

“He was...he fell so far. There was no saving him”, he mumbled into her shoulder. She thought maybe he hadn’t had a chance to mourn. She’d mourned for a long time, until she grew older and overheard how she’d been sold. There was nothing in her old life that she would miss.

After a bit, he coughed awkwardly and drew back. “Whatever it is we must do, this book is part of it. It came from England. I know this. It was meant to be a gift for my king from theirs. I had planned to find out where it came from and hope that will lead us to what we’re meant to do. But I don’t know how to get there.” He spread his hands. “What did you have in mind?”

“You know the Via de Compostela? The pilgrim’s way from France?” He nodded again. “Well, that isn’t the only route to Santiago de Compostela. It has fallen out of favor, but there is a pilgrim’s road that begins in Seville, where I lived. It’s called the Via de la Plata. The name stuck in my mind because of what everyone called the master.” She explained the nickname. It made him smile. “I thought we could join the pilgrims walking the road. It joins the way to Compostela in the north, I think. From there…” she shrugged. “Well, if we get that far, let’s hope by then we have another plan. I think, I _know_ , he needs us, and I don’t know how long he can wait.”

…

They spent the day making plans and putting them into action. It was his turn to make them this time. “First we’ll need to leave this rock. As lovely as it has been sharing these fine accommodations with you.” He bowed. She giggled. “And”...he hesitated. He wasn’t sure how she was going to take this next part. “We’ll need to disguise you. You’re more familiar with Spain and its customs than I, but it would be scandalous for a young woman and a young man to be traveling together, would it not?”

She nodded, puzzled. “I think it would be best if we disguised you as a boy. That would not be as easily noticed, yes?” He saw her eyes begin to widen as she registered exactly how that would work. He nodded in return. “Yes. We’ll have to cut your hair.”

They split the work between them again, as naturally as breathing. She went to check the snares and make sure their things were in the best possible repair. He had the somewhat nerve-wracking task of obtaining the things they’d need for her transformation. It was a sin to steal, he knew, but needs must. He chose an isolated cottage and hid in the brush until he saw the woman who lived there and what appeared to be her son, not quite a man, heading to the town itself for market. His Arabic was good enough to hear her say her son had best get to chopping that firewood when they returned, since he was the man of the house now that his father was gone. The boy, a weedy youth, didn’t look pleased at the prospect. That gave Finn an idea. He smiled.

Once they’d gone, he helped himself to some of the laundry hanging from the line. Not all of it, and none of the better things. But first, because it made him feel better and he enjoyed imagining how confused they’d be when they returned, he stripped to the waist and chopped the firewood for them. Let them puzzle out what sort of creature had taken their laundry and done their chores.

When he got back to the cave, it smelled temptingly of roasting meat and he was ravenous. His snares had evidently yielded three rabbits at once and they were nearly done. They didn’t waste any time digging into the food, and soon he, Rey, and Octavius were sitting back with full bellies. Bastian was content too, having been tethered where he could crop the grass and scrub while Finn was gone. Finn regaled Rey with the story of the mysterious thieving woodsman, which made her laugh. When they were finished eating and the tea had been made, he brought the boys’ clothes out of his pack. He hadn’t had a lot of selection, so he hoped they’d fit.

…

Rey was intrigued by the boys’ clothes Brother Finn had brought her. She loved that he’d thought to do something kind for the family; she hadn’t been entirely comfortable with the idea of taking things from someone else, but she knew they had very little choice. These certainly looked as though they’d be easier for moving around; climbing and scrambling in skirts had been...inconvenient. She put the clothes down on the cave floor next to her and began removing her own garments. She was used to being overlooked as something less than female; less than human, really, so she didn’t think anything of it until she heard the strangled noise of surprise.

She looked up to see Brother Finn backing away, blushing furiously,arms outstretched as though warding off an attack. “I...you..what...I’ll give you your privacy. Excuse me.”

He ducked his head, eyes screwed shut, and fled the cave as though pursued by a bear. Had he broken out in a sweat? She realized when he ran into the wall on the way out that his eyes were *still* closed. She looked after him, at the clothes, down at the top half of her own body, now bare, and began giggling helplessly as she sat on the ground, arms and chest prickled with gooseflesh. It was a few minutes before she could compose herself enough to put on the shirt.

It was too large, of course, and it would need some taking in to properly fit her; but the length was good, falling past her hips. The trousers were an interesting sensation. She felt at once restricted and free; so much cloth wrapped so tightly around her legs was odd, but she could stride unhindered by the flapping of skirts. It was refreshing, after walking around the cave a bit to get used to it. Rey gazed down the length of herself. It was difficult to see how effective this might be without someone else to look at her from a distance. Still, she could see even from this angle that her breasts, while not especially imposing, were evident under the thin fabric of the shirt. She would have to restrain them, somehow, to account for the lack of lacing and prevent them from being seen.

Her old clothes weren’t going to be much use if she was going to pass as a boy. It was the work of minutes to use a sharp edge of rock to cut her bodice and skirt into strips, since how it looked wouldn’t matter. Rey wrapped the strips of cloth tightly around herself. It was a little uncomfortable, but she could see that it might be helpful for movement. When it came to knot the strips of cloth, though, there was a spot behind her back that she just couldn’t properly reach. All right. His reprieve was just going to have to be over. This was hopeless.

She stepped barefoot to the cave entrance in breeches and binding rags. “Brother Finn? Can you help me? I can’t tie this bit on my own. I’m sorry I startled you, I just…I trust you, so I didn’t think.” She blew out a breath. “Please?”

…

Finn hadn’t gone very far. He heard her soft-spoken request. It wasn’t so much the “please” as the “I trust you” that did it. She did, it seemed. So he would just have to trust himself. He’d just never seen...those were...He couldn’t even finish a thought. Enough. She needed his help. It was just a body, like his. All right, not exactly like his. But a human body, made in God’s image, and nothing that should dismay him. He felt heat burn in his face. The dismay hadn’t been entirely unmixed with other feelings. She was beautiful to behold, much like the blooms that had sprung up in this seemingly barren place. And she was waiting, so he’d better pluck up his courage.

He cautiously made his way back into the cave. She was wearing the breeches he’d brought, some sort of...bandages?, he thought, across her chest, and an apologetic look. Her arms were holding something awkwardly behind her back. “Here. I can’t quite tie this part.” That looked uncomfortable. He quickly stepped up behind her and knotted the bits of cloth. “Too tight?”

She shook her head. “It has to be tight, to hide the...she looked over her shoulder at him and gestured to the front of herself. Her cheeks were pink. “Would you hand me the shirt, please?” Once she’d put it on, she really did resemble a delicate-featured boy, he thought. Hard work had left her lean, but strong. But…

“I believe that will suit very well”, he said. “I think it’s time to cut your hair. Are you ready?” She sighed, then nodded. He took out his eating knife; he probably should have left that with her when he went to the town, he reflected. It looked as though she’d been cutting cloth with a rock. He’d do better next time. “All right. Sit down here with your back toward me.” He really had no idea how to do this. He knew women in the north wore their hair long and men tended to wear it short, but other than that he was lost.

He took a handful of hair and began sawing it off with his belt knife. He thought stopping at about the nape of her neck must be right? And shorter, in front, over her eyes? All he could do was his best. Finn was almost finished when he heard a soft noise. He looked at her hands, holding some of the long locks he’d just cut, and realized she was crying. She dropped them and put her hands over her face. What was he meant to do now? This was entirely outside his area of expertise. But she’d known what to do, when he mourned his fallen brother. Really, he could do no less for her. So he dropped the knife, reached forward and put his arms around her. He didn’t really know what to do with the rest of himself, so he rested his head on her shoulder. After a moment she put her hands atop his were they were joined in front of her. It was enough.

They stayed like that until her tears stopped. She took a deep breath and began picking up the cut locks of hair. Finn put a hand over hers. “Let me. You go and finish your tea.” She nodded and went to sit by the fire. He hadn’t realized that would hurt her. He wondered why it was so important. It didn’t diminish her. She still looked like the angel he knew her to be, radiant and strong. When he’d finished sweeping the hair out of the cave with a pine bough, he saved a single lock, coiled it up, and put it in his pack. He had no idea why.

…

When Brother Finn returned, she’d composed herself and taken out her needle and thread to alter the shirt. He placed the outer, draped part of his robe around her shoulders, then sat down by the fire with her. Rey pulled it closer around her, grateful that it was still warm from his body. She could tell by his face that he wanted to say something, so she waited. Octavius wandered over wanting to be cuddled, and Brother Finn seemed to be happy to oblige him.

“I’m sorry”, he said. “I didn’t realize that would upset you. All of this is new to me.” He waved a hand to indicate something, she wasn’t sure what. Herself? The cave? The donkey? The world? “But I don’t understand.”

She put down the shirt and rested her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. “I don’t really understand either. I would have told you it didn’t matter, until suddenly it did.” She shrugged. “I think maybe...I never had a chance to have anything beautiful. It was all making do and patching and rags and being worth my keep. Most of the time being a girl wasn’t something I thought about. I was no more interesting than a table, or…a boot. But once, when I was sent to market, a woman told me I had beautiful hair. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me; something to think about, once I was free of Nunca Plata. And now -”, she swept her hand down the length of herself, “- instead, I’m a boy.” She shrugged again, and picked up the shirt.

Brother Finn stopped her with a hand on her arm. “It does not make you less.” He searched her face; and, she thought, for the right words. “Not less kind, or strong”; he paused and looked at the floor, “or beautiful. I don’t think anything could.” Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. He abruptly got up and began sweeping a clear space on the stone of the cave floor. “Now. It was St. Isidore of your own Seville who said ‘Letters are signs of things, symbols of words, whose power is so great that without a voice they speak to us the words of the absent; for they introduce words by the eye, not by the ear.’ in his Etymologiae. So. You have letters in your mind, the words of someone absent. It’s time we get those letters where we can see them.”

He took a burnt stick from the fire to write; but it was impossible. No matter how she cudgeled her mind, the letters refused to present themselves when Brother Finn, with all due gentleness and patience, tried to help her recall them. It frustrated them both. So they gave up on that task for now and he began just to teach her the shapes of letters. That wasn’t much easier, but it suited them both better. He said they’d start with O; the shape was easy to remember, and it was at the beginning of Octavius. It looked, she thought, like the bitter oranges that grew in Seville. She practiced drawing her oranges until she was half-asleep; Finn took the quill from her hand. Rey stumbled off to her bedroll; huge orange moons danced through her dreams.  
…

Ben looked down at the drawing he’d just added to the Gospel of St. Matthew. Today the angel was bent with weeping. A stray lock of hair curled around one hand in his image. He found his eyes drawn to two of the lines of text. “The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” That was something he already knew, to his sorrow. Every day’s work was an effort to let the spirit guide him. Evidently he was enough to make angels weep. And “I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” He hoped so. He surrounded his angel with pine boughs, sheltering and fragrant. It seemed right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Researching Gibraltar was a great deal of fun. It is riddled with caves, the largest complex of which is called the Cave of Saint Michael. The Gibraltar Candytuft is a flower that is native only to that place, and it is gorgeous. There really is nothing to eat there if you're living off the land except rabbits and pine nuts.
> 
>   
> Persimonne asked about what type of dog Octavius is. We've decided he's mostly spaniel, with a touch of alaunt, because it's Spain's hawking dog. Here's an illustration - our Octavius would be the one over on the right scratching his ear, but with orange and white markings and, you know, just a touch rounder.


	5. Viae et Modi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ways and Means: In which Brother Finn and Reymund, aspiring novice, begin their walk on the Way, the Via de la Plata to Compostela. In which we meet a very interesting pilgrim, and discover a few memories and motives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindness begets kindness. Finding a friend is like a drink of water on a dusty road.

Finn and Rey started their journey in the morning. It was a matter of a few days to get to Seville, but their trip was a little longer. They stopped to lend a hand wherever one seemed to be needed; in return for helping pick fruit, or handle livestock, they were given food and shelter. Finn found a few folk who wanted help writing things like letters to relatives or even marriage contracts; this allowed him to earn a little coin as well as some writing supplies for himself.

He used these to alter the letter he’d been given at Debre Damo; it was both introduction and permission. All that was necessary was to alter the purpose of the trip from the receipt of a gift to the hatse to a sacred pilgrimage to Compostela on behalf of one of the brothers who was unable to make the trip, for the benefit of his soul. Rey’s purpose was easier to explain. They’d inquired on the way here about local monasteries and found there was one only a day’s travel west, the Convento de Santa Maria de la Rabida. They decided that young Reymund, as he must now be called, wished to take the pilgrim’s journey to decide whether he had a vocation for monastic life, and had fallen in with Brother Finn as a companion and mentor on the journey from Huelva, the nearby town.

It was easier than he’d expected. One of the local churches in Seville was happy to issue pilgrims’ credentials for them once they’d seen his letter and heard Reymund’s tale. In return for some of the coin Finn had earned, they were provided the items all pilgrims on this road must carry; a cloak for warmth, a broad hat, a satchel for food, a staff for defense and help with the road, and a gourd for water. Finn was also handed the scallop shells that were the most important symbol of this pilgrimage. Finn felt sorry for the deception, just a little; then he realized that the most important parts of their story were true. They were embarking on this journey to save a soul; he really did intend to pray for rest for Brother Novenario, and “Reymund” hoped to discover and fulfill whatever purpose lay ahead. Perhaps the patron saint of pilgrims would be of some help, he was thinking as he pressed one of the shells into Rey’s hand.

…

Luke walked slowly through the scriptorium, overlooking the work of each scribe with satisfaction. It was part of his work, he told himself, to make sure things worked smoothly in every corner of this abbey, his charge and his pride. He knew, though, that a large part of his desire to visit the scriptorium so often was to keep an eye on his nephew. Ben had enormous talent; but it took a great deal of work to keep him on the narrow path. He’d been diligent in his attendance at services since Luke had spoken to him, though his restless nights continued, it seemed. 

Luke knew that rigor and routine were the only way to alleviate whatever haunted Ben; and God willing, prayer and penance and keen attention would be balm for the soul. His work, his health, and his attention to the Rule; all must be monitored. He looked over Ben’s shoulder as he reached his nephew’s desk; the text was proceeding nicely. He’d reached the Gospel of St. Matthew. Luke read the last inked line: “Going on a little further, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John; they too were in their boat, mending the nets.” 

He saw Ben was sketching the illustration that would go alongside the text. He was smiling faintly, completely intent on his work; Luke was reminded of the carefree boy he’d once been. Knowing his nephew’s talent, he expected to see a pair of fishermen as real and alive as any along the nearby Stour; instead, he saw a pair of scallop shells. Intrigued, he looked more closely and saw the emblem sketched on each shell; the symbol of Saint James, of Compostela, cross, sword and flower all in one. 

It was a symbol he hadn’t thought about for decades, and he was transported instantly back to his own days on the Road. The feel of dust, the sweet taste of water from the calabash after a long, footsore walk; and the weight of a sword at his side, legacy and burden in one. It occurred to him to wonder how Ben had so accurately rendered that symbol, borne by a weary Hospitaller so many years ago; when, to Luke’s knowledge, he’d never seen one. 

...

Rey and Finn rested overnight at the church before continuing on their way. This was another good reason to travel the pilgrim way; hospitality was given freely to those walking, for penance or for hope. In the morning, with fresh supplies loaded on Bastian and gourds full of water, they started walking. Rey was used to hard work, but this constant travel, all on foot, was wearying. Still, she’d been down to Gibraltar and now she was taking the Via north of her home, all the way to Compostela. She would be well-traveled and strong at the end of this.

There were a few others on the road, but not many; this way wasn’t as popular as the Way from France. No one took any notice of them at all other than to wave or perhaps say hello. Brother Finn got a few second glances, but this was the south of Spain, after all, so he went largely unremarked. They were most of a day out of Seville, hot and dusty and foot-weary, when they saw the cart. It was a fairly sizeable affair, more like a small wagon, really. And it was empty. 

They wondered at the cart without an occupant or a draft animal until they got closer and saw the horse lying on the ground in front of it. They could hear the rasping breaths from where they were. A small figure knelt on the ground next to the animal, stroking its neck. Finn looked at her. “We shouldn’t stop, but…” His eyes were pleading. 

“Of course. Go and see if there is any way you can help.” She halted Bastian, leaned against him, and took a drink. She was too curious to stay away, though. As she walked over, Rey could see Brother Finn giving the horse some water as he spoke to the person beside it. His face was full of sadness. Half-kneeling next to him with one leg stretched awkwardly to the side was a rosy little apple of a woman. She twined her fingers in the beast’s mane. 

“There, there, Rosalind. It’ll all be over soon.” The woman spoke in Latin, as Finn had; though hers was accented with local Spanish and something different, older perhaps, that Rey had never heard before. 

Rey snuck a glance at Finn, then at the horse. He shook his head. She nodded. “Madam...may I help you? Are you in need of water?” She tried to roughen her voice as best she could.

“That’s very kind of you, child, but it’s not the first time I’ve watched over a death. I’m an old hand at this, I’m afraid. And Rosalind and I are friends, you see, so I’ll stay until she’s finished with the business of dying.” She smiled. Rey handed her the gourd of water, which she took with thanks. “Your friend here says it won’t be long. He hasn’t told me his name yet, though.”

Finn nodded. “I’ve seen this sickness before. It’s not a sickness of men, but once the difficulty breathing begins, there’s nothing that can be done. One of the caravan horses on the way to Tunis. It was a miracle none of the other beasts sickened. It had to be separated; quarantined from the others.” There was a hitch in his voice. “Apologies. I am Brother Finn. And you?”

The woman smiled, her cheeks pink in the afternoon sun. Tendrils of curling grey hair were escaping from her headdress. “I’m Dorothea Cartwright. And this poor beast”--the smile dimmed a bit--”is Rosalind.”

Finn was right. It wasn’t long before the poor thing was at rest. Finn insisted on a proper burial for the horse he’d only met a few minutes before. Rey knew better than to argue. Evidently there was a shovel in the cart, among other things. She helped the woman to her feet. She was tiny, though comfortably round; and she seemed to have some trouble getting up from the ground. As Rey led her to the cart, she limped a bit, and leaned rather more heavily than one might have expected. Once settled on the tongue of the cart, she watched Finn removing the harness and tack. He moved a polite distance away and began digging a hole. The sun was still hot, even in late afternoon. His cloak, robes, and eventually his shirt ended up in a neat pile at his feet.

Dorothea watched appreciatively as he worked. “Fine figure of a monk, that one. Reminds me of my second husband. Sweet, and a bit foolish.” She glanced sidelong at Rey. “Eh, my girl?” Rey tried to keep her face as impassive as she could. 

“I think you’ve been out in the sun a little too long, madam. I’m no girl.” She looked over to see if it was working. No. Not a bit. 

Dorothea chuckled. “Oh, don’t you worry. I won’t tell a soul. Well, I might tell my husbands, but they’re gone, every last one, so who would they tell?” She laughed at the look on Rey’s face. “Three of them I had, one for every land where I’ve lived. All fine, in their own ways. And none of them would have had an inkling that you’re a girl, but you can’t fool me. For starters, you still sit like you’re in skirts, girl. A man takes up space. Like this.” She angled her legs out wide under her skirt and laughed again as she tucked them back into place. “Now what are you calling yourself? I imagine not the name your mother gave you.” 

Rey sighed and gave up. “Reymund. I’m called Reymund, of Huelva. I’ve taken the pilgrim road to discover whether I have a vocation.” 

Dorothea found this positively hilarious. “I highly doubt it. But your reasons are not mine to question. Accompanying a man somewhere you’ve never been before is something I understand perfectly. You enjoy it. They don’t always last as long as you’d like, men.”

Rey had no idea what to say to that. “What about you? Will you be able to continue? Do you intend to go all the way to Compostela?” She had a thought. “We can help! If we hitch Bastian to the cart, you can ride.”

The corners of Dorothea’s eyes crinkled. “You’re both very kind, aren’t you? Lambs, the both of you. Don’t let the world take your kindness from you. Kindness makes up for a multitude of sins. And, since I’ll never be able to walk the pilgrim road with these creaky bones”--she patted her leg--”I accept.”

Rey had a thought that she ought to have asked Finn first, but he agreed without hesitation once he’d finished settling the poor horse. She was learning him, it would seem. He helped Dorothea into the cart with great care, something she seemed to enjoy. They worked together to hitch Bastian to the cart; he accepted this with his usual philosophical attitude and only a few groans of protest. Rey handed Octavius to Dorothea; she’d been worried about whether he was too little to walk so far. Their new companion seemed delighted with the puppy.

…

Dorothea was enjoying herself. She’d been a bit lonely since Esteban had gone, rest his soul. She’d just been rattling around the house like a single pea in an overlarge pod. She didn’t waste time wailing and pulling her hair. Death happened, but life continued. It wasn’t her first family. Losing the children had been a blow, back in England so many years ago, no question about that; but they were safe in the arms of angels and nothing would hurt them again. No doubt they’d tell her all about it and pester her with questions when she saw them again. That would be nice. 

She’d decided to DO something about it rather than sit in an empty house. She wasn’t much for stillness, and she hadn’t stayed in one place for long since she’d left England. Caring for Esteban and planning the funeral had reminded her of her earlier losses, though, so she’d decided to take the pilgrim road to Compostela for all their dear souls. She might meet them all again on the road, or just pray for them when she got there; you never knew where the next sunrise would find you. For now, it had landed her in the middle of what seemed like a very interesting story. 

She shook her head. Reverie wasn’t at all like her. She watched Brother Finn stoop to get one of the small casks of water out from the back of the cart, and winced in sympathy as he hit his head on the cart itself when he stood. “Best watch that, dear boy. The head is very sensitive; be careful with it.” She chortled to herself. Innocents, both of them.  
…

Dorothea was a very entertaining travel companion. She’d certainly led a fascinating life. Her first marriage in England was to a cartwright, whose name she once again bore. Fever and ague had taken him and all three of their children. Rey and Finn both walked next to the cart to spare Bastian the extra weight, and Dorothea regaled them (well, Rey, since Finn had no Spanish) with tales of all three of her husbands and countries. Her second husband had been French; a wine merchant with whom she’d done business. He’d begun adding bunches of flowers to the deliveries; once she’d realized what he was doing, she’d come to the door of her house with one of them in her hair. She’d learned her Latin helping him with his business, she said, after she sold the house and uprooted herself to France. 

“Terrible head for business, that one, no idea how he survived without me. Knew his wine, though, to be sure. And sweet! Flowers every day.” She smiled, remembering. A fall from a horse had taken him from her.

Her third husband, Esteban, had been in business making marmalade in Seville. Nunca Plata hadn’t cared for the stuff, saying it was too bitter and too dear, so Rey had never had occasion to buy any. Dorothea said he’d had a fine singing voice and a good head of hair, both of which she appreciated. He’d traded in perfumes scented with bitter orange as well, which took him to France--and then took her to Seville. He had, after all, generally smelled delicious, she said. An accident on the road making a delivery had done for him not too long ago.

Rey wasn’t sure what to make of most of this, but she admired the courage it must have taken to start a new life so many times. And she’d suffered all those losses, but she was still cheerful and open to new experiences. Rey and Dorothea chatted in Spanish most of the way. That was probably just as well. Some of the things Rey did understand sent a hot blush from her neck all the way to her scalp; she couldn’t imagine what Brother Finn would have thought. Between that and the household advice (when was she going to need that?), recipes, and tales of the foibles of Seville’s merchant class (some of whom Rey knew from her forays into the market), she hardly noticed the time passing.

…

It wasn’t long before they were approaching Merida. Finn spent most of the time leading Bastian; he was willing, but reins were not his idea of the proper way to be guided, so Finn walked by his head and held the halter. They spent a couple of nights camped out on the road; he’d insisted that Dorothea take the cart, and he and Reymund (he must remember to use that name, it was of vital importance) sheltered under their cloaks. Well, at first; after he saw her shivering, he gave her his too. He had his robes, after all. 

He thought he might have to acquire some facility with Spanish. Dorothea and Reymund were chatting together like old friends. He caught a few Latin cognates here and there and thought she was talking about husbands. Plural? Could that be right? Whatever she was saying, most of it made Rey...Reymund laugh. And sometimes blush. She was polite enough to switch to Latin on the occasions when they stopped. And yes, he discovered, she’d had three husbands and outlived them all. She was just a little intimidating.

When they got to Merida, Dorothea asked if she could take the cart for a bit of sightseeing (she’d heard there was a rather nice amphitheater and a circus) while Finn and Reymund stopped at the hospital for rest and resupply. They agreed; it was hers, after all, and Bastian seemed to be resigned to use of the reins when Dorothea was driving. They took advantage of the opportunity to rest and eat. Finn asked Rey what she and Dorothea had been talking about; she blushed again, and said only that she’d talked about her life and that she was most decidedly a woman of the world.

…

They’d finished the midday meal and were just enjoying not moving for a while when Dorothea returned. She was…wearing a new dress? And she was not alone. With her in the cart was a burly man (shaped rather like a barrel, really) with a magnificent waxed mustache and not a hair on the top of his head. And Dorothea was grinning from ear to ear.

“Let me introduce my husband, Fernando. We’ve just been married, isn’t it marvelous? Now. Fernando, you are taking Brother Finn here for a nice mug of ale. You, my dear, are coming with me.” She pointed at Rey. “Fernando has some clothes his son has outgrown, boys do grow so quickly at that age.” Fernando greeted them amiably in Spanish; then in Latin. He seemed bemused and enchanted with his new wife and went along without protest when Dorothea shoved them both toward the nearest tavern. 

“Not too much, darling; I want you at your best later.” She winked at Fernando, who blushed. Dorothea seemed to have that effect on people. 

Once they’d left (Finn looked a little alarmed, but shrugged and went along with it), Dorothea leaned down to whisper, “I thought you’d appreciate a bath, dear. Don’t worry, Fernando really does have a young son who bids fair to be as imposing as his father soon, but his old clothes look to be about your size. He’s got a few more children, too; it’ll be so nice to have young ones in the house.” Rey was confused, amazed, bewildered, and touched. She blinked tears out of her eyes. So did her friend. She had a friend. Dorothea patted her hand and they drove off to what was evidently now Fernando and Dorothea’s home. It wasn’t far.

When they returned, Rey had a few sets of boys’ clothing for changes along the way, and she was gloriously clean. It was awfully convenient how quickly her hair dried now. Dorothea retrieved her new husband (after drinking half his ale), and pressed a couple of very odd-looking pilgrims’ badges into their hands. Rey’s seemed to be a shape rather like a lemon or an elm leaf, perched atop a pair of legs, with...layers, like the petals of a flower. Finn’s was...oh dear. She’d seen the occasional statue or inappropriate drunk who hadn’t managed to stay in his pants, and if she wasn’t mistaken, that was...oh. That was why Finn looked so shocked. So her own... she spared a thought for the bath she’d just finished. OH. She shot Dorothea a look. Dorothea smiled without a hint of repentance and winked at her. 

“Fernando smiths pilgrims’ badges himself. He’s very talented, don’t you think? Now. You can keep the cart, chickadees, I won’t be needing it. The next sunrise will find me right here. Sometimes your hands touch, and you just know.” 

Rey looked at Finn to find him looking back at the same time. Dorothea put her hands on Fernando’s rather enormous forearm and smiled up at him. He gazed adoringly at her. She limped forward and took one of each of their hands. 

“The last of Esteban’s marmalade is in a few jars at the back of the cart; to remind you that life is bitter, and sweet, and you should make the most of it while it lasts. Treasure everything you love for as long as you have it. I hope you both find your way.” She took a step back, waved them off and walked slowly in the direction of her new home, while Fernando supported her as carefully as though she were made of porcelain. Rey suspected Dorothea was made of considerably sturdier stuff than that.

…

Today was not a good day for the work. Ben’s dreams had been demon-ridden again; and prayer and fasting seemed to offer no solace. He’d found the image again, here, in his work; the Gospel of Saint Matthew was much concerned with demons, and he saw this one appear despite himself. There it hid in a corner of the text, peering around the letters; there it loomed over a monk as he cowered before it. He accepted these as illustrations for the text, but he could feel himself being steered to create these images, and he was worried that the work wouldn’t be as perfect as he needed it to be; the clean and heartfelt offering he intended. 

He was lettering the text, a prayer on his lips that the work would be what it should, when he refocused from his concentration on each individual, beautifully formed letter to read the passage itself: “By their fruits ye shall know them.” And further along: “A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit…” Ben hoped so. He was doing the best he knew how. Surely God would see how he was striving and accept his work. He turned his quill to the box waiting for his illustration of the text; with a lift of his heart and spirit, he began sketching. A cart formed under his fingers; and pulling it, a particularly shaggy donkey. Atop the seat in front, where the cart’s driver should have been, sat a single round fruit. He knew that when he finished this image, it would be a slightly wrinkled but still sound apple in a shade of rosy pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a lot of courage to embark on a pilgrimage like this. As a result, you might be lucky enough to encounter a colorful character or two along the Way.
> 
>        
> The badge that Dorothea gifts Rey is based on this 14th/15th c. pilgrim badge from the Netherlands; the one for Finn is apparently from the 15th century but I can't find a great source for it. Aren't they cute! If you'd like to learn more about these badges, read Lena Mackenzie Gimbel's Master's Thesis, [_Bawdy badges and the Black Death : late medieval apotropaic devices against the spread of the plague._](https://c-7npsfqifvt34x24jsx2emjcsbszx2empvjtwjmmfx2efev.g00.ranker.com/g00/3_c-7x78x78x78.sbolfs.dpn_/c-7NPSFQIFVT34x24iuuqtx3ax2fx2fjs.mjcsbsz.mpvjtwjmmf.fevx2fdhjx2fwjfx78dpoufou.dhjx3fsfgfsfsx3diuuqtx3ax2fx2fx78x78x78.sbolfs.dpnx2fmjtux2fnfejfwbm-qjmhsjnbhf-cbehftx2fhfofwjfwf-dbsmupox26iuuqtsfejsx3d2x26bsujdmfx3d2507x26dpoufyux3dfue_%24/%24/%24?i10c.ua=1&i10c.dv=14)


	6. Chalceus et Charitas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copper (or Brass) and Charity, In which our Brother Finn and young Reymund prove themselves kind, returning to others what they have been given; and in which they meet a friend in need, whose day is not going well until they help make it better. And in which we make Brother Ben laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Rey, running about yoinking skills right out of people's craniums, possibly in this chapter, definitely in the next. It's hardly fair seeing what a fast learner she was in the first place. Finn is learning who he is in the world, and that is a Very Good Thing.

The next week was a blur of towns and names and travel. Finn and Reymund walked the Via de la Plata, taking hospitality where it was offered. It was understood between them by now that they would help others less fortunate as they could along the way. Rey wasn’t used to thinking of herself as fortunate; she found that she liked it very much. She WAS fortunate. Rey had wondered what would become of her after Nunca Plata abandoned her in Ceuta. He had been unpleasant, but she’d been used to him. His...ownership of her was all she had ever known. And her cramped little attic room under the eaves of his house had been home.

But now, here she was, walking through a grand adventure in which she wasn’t entirely sure she belonged. She was clothed and fed and mostly warm, she had faithful Bastian at her side and little Octavius to make her smile. And she had Finn, who seemed to understand her down to her bones, and what was more, seemed to _admire_ her. That such a man, an accomplished scholar, a willing hand to any needed work, and most important, a kind traveler and friend, would think her worthy of admiration was enough to make her heart sing. That they were equals who taught and supported each other where they were weak and appreciated each other’s strengths was a continuing joy she could never have anticipated.

And she had a purpose. She might not know who or where, but she knew that someone needed her, and that too was a warm and wonderful thing. She looked over at Finn, and thought about their shared purpose. Just maybe, she had two people who needed her.

With all those riches, it was only right that she extend a hand to those who needed one. And there were quite a few. They found themselves giving rides, food, and company to fellow pilgrims. A few children had been brought to walk the Way, and some of them were not as robust as could be hoped. But some time in the cart, a few rides on Bastian’s back (he was infinitely patient with children, they learned), and the irresistible company of little Octavius soon had them wide-eyed and laughing.

In the towns, Finn would lend a hand to whatever work needed doing, anything from writing letters to digging wells; he especially enjoyed helping with horses when he had the chance and Rey loved to see how the animals instinctively trusted him (she knew the feeling) and how much he doted on them. Rey offered to repair damaged clothing and other possessions for fellow pilgrims, most of whom were happy to accept.

They ran across travelers who were elderly, ill, or injured with fair frequency. Many of these things were the impetus for going on pilgrimage in the first place. Finn and Reymund made it their business to treat these poor souls like kings and queens, handing them up into the cart with great ceremony and tucking a cape or cloak around them as though it were a set of royal robes. They were amply repaid in smiles and stories.

The Road, it seemed, was not kind to the weak or the weary. As spring progressed, the hot, dry landscape took its toll. But every pilgrim on this road had a story, a life rich in experiences both sweet and bitter, and Rey and Finn, both so sheltered in their respective ways for so long, drank them in like rain on parched earth. It was the most difficult thing Rey had ever done, this walk, this quest; and she found that it was the happiest she had ever been.

...

While they walked and whenever they camped, Finn began teaching Reymund to fight with the staff as well as continuing work on the shapes of letters. He knew the quarterstaff wasn’t the weapon she was meant to wield, but it was the one he knew and they both had. She needed to learn how to defend herself, and it would help her strengthen herself, mind, body and spirit, for what lay ahead. So they practiced.

This was noticed (most of the pilgrims thought it was good sense). Occasionally as they moved from town to town, Finn found himself teaching a group of pilgrim children how to use a staff to defend themselves. He didn’t mind. Perhaps when they grew to be adults they would choose this way over a blade and lives would be spared. He caught Rey staring at him as he stood like a giant in a circle of small, ragged children holding sticks, her face filled with suppressed laughter. He couldn’t help but smile back. He hadn’t had much opportunity to interact with children as an adult, but he’d discovered he enjoyed them very much.

This was all, the whole trip, considerably more fun than he would have expected. He felt happy and...fulfilled. Finn had loved his home and his contribution to the glorification of the Lord in text and prayer and chanting and the dedication of his life; but in helping others with honest work and kindness, respect and esteem, he knew he was where he was meant to be. With Rey and their mission, he was needed, he could feel God’s hand at work, and he was home.

The Road was long and difficult for some. Finn eventually realized they were gaining a reputation for helping those in need. Neither of them minded this in the slightest. They’d discovered in their partnership with each other that it filled them both with joy to be needed, to be useful, and to be kind. So it wasn’t a surprise to him when a...delegation?...of pilgrims and townspeople approached them as they travelled between Zamora and Granja de Moreruela. Finn was beginning to acquire some Spanish, but people spoke quickly when they were excited and he knew that Rey liked translating and being the learned one. There was a certain deliberate slowness to his normally excellent language skills because he liked how happy it made her to help.

It seemed there had been an injury in a tiny town to the east called Piedrahita de Castro. It was so small that it didn’t have a church or monastery (which was VERY unusual for towns close to the Pilgrim Ways); its official buildings were limited to the mayor’s residence. They were being asked to help transport the injured man to the Monasteria de Santa Maria de Moreruela, the closest place his injury could be treated. Neither of them had to think about it. They just looked at each other and nodded.

It was a short trip to Piedrahita de Castro. There was only one building in town on the large side, and the crowd gathered around it told them the location of the patient. They approached the mayor’s house (or so they supposed it must be). Rey politely asked the crowd to move aside while Finn calmed Bastian and stroked his nose. Once the gathering of people had parted, they were able to see a figure stretched on the ground at their feet. That he was conscious was immediately evident as he was producing a low, continuous mutter in a language that neither of them spoke. From the tone, neither of them was in any doubt whatsoever that it was a stream of invective.

“Here, hold Bastian for me, please. He’s a little nervous at all the people and talk in this small area.” He handed the reins to Rey. “I’m no physician, but at my monastery we were isolated enough to have to treat most injuries ourselves; we even had a few texts on the subject.” Rey nodded and led Bastian a little away from the crowd.

As Finn approached the man, he began speaking directly to Finn. His hands described what looked like a fall from the nearby roof and the rapid-fire flow of speech ended with a gesture down the front of his body and a word: “ _Snap_!” He shuddered and continued speaking. Finn had no idea what he was saying; he seemed to be in a considerable amount of pain and perhaps a little addled as a result.

Since it was the only language they were likely to have in common, Finn addressed the man in Latin. “Your name is Snap? I am Brother Finn. I’m here to try and help as I can, and to take you to the closest monastery.” He looked down. His patient was a big man, comfortably padded but strong with it; he had to be, if he made a habit of climbing on rooftops. He had dark hair and a beard, and a face that probably looked a lot more cheerful when he wasn’t in agony. One problem, at least, was clear. His hip joint seemed to be out of place, with his foot rotated toward the middle of his body.

The man’s eyes widened. He blew out a huge sigh of relief. “You speak Latin. Thank God. This town is so small, only the mayor has much Latin. No, that’s not my name. That’s the sound my leg made when I hit the ground. Not this one,” he gestured toward the twisted foot, “the other one. I’m Thomas Wexley and I am VERY glad to meet you, Brother Finn.” He made an attempt to smile. It wasn’t a very good one. “I blame the roosters.”

“I beg your pardon? Did you hit your head?” Finn knelt down in the dust by the man’s head and felt for injuries. He was startled when the patient began laughing. There was a hysterical tinge to the laughter, but laughter it was.

“No, sorry, I didn’t hit my head. I make jokes when things go wrong. Let me try again. I’m a brazier. I make things from brass and travel from town to town selling or installing them. I was adding a weathervane to the top of the mayor’s house. It’s shaped like a cock, which is the usual way...for...weathervanes.” He paused and closed his eyes, Finn thought from the pain.

Thomas opened his eyes and continued with a weak chuckle. “But I must be better at this than I thought, because one of the village roosters took exception to being lorded over by another, larger cock higher than he could reach. His battle cry surprised me and I fell off the roof. So it really was the roosters. How bad is it? Can you tell?” He gestured again to his legs. His face was anxious.

By this point Rey had tethered Bastian to a fence and come to join the two of them. Having heard them talking, she spoke in Latin as well. “I’ll go get Bastian and the cart when we’re ready to move him; but I don’t know if we ought to do that. Would it hurt you?” She transferred her attention to the man on the ground. “I am Reymund. We’re going to do our best to help you.”

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t think I could move much right now.” He indicated his twisted leg. “This hurts like I’ve been spitted on Satan’s own pitchfork.” He looked at Finn and gave a wry twist of his mouth. “Sorry, Brother.” He was growing paler as they watched.

Finn shrugged. “I have no doubt that it does, though such a statement does make me wonder when and where exactly you gained the practical experience for such a comparison.” It took Thomas and Reymund both a moment to appreciate the joke he’d made, then they both giggled at the image. It stopped when Thomas gave a hiss of pain.

Finn gave Thomas a serious look. “The joint of your hip is displaced. Dislocated is the word physicians use. If left this way for long, there could be permanent damage to your hip and leg.” Thomas was beginning to look alarmed. “But I may have a remedy. Hippocrates wrote about techniques for correcting such an injury; a reduction, he called it. If you permit, I will try this. I’m not a physician, but I will do my best. Then we can get you into the cart and take you for more experienced help,” he paused to grin at the patient, “Snap.”

Rey looked puzzled. The injured brazier raised an eyebrow at Finn. “Very funny. Go ahead. If it’s that bad, I’ll take any chance I have of using the leg again. Do what you have to do.”

Finn nodded. What he hadn’t said was that Hippocrates had written about dislocation of the shoulder. But it had to be more or less the same in practice, right? He tried to look considerably more confident than he felt. He did know that if this wasn’t corrected as quickly as possible, it could cost Thomas his life, not just his leg. He gathered his nerve. He had to be strong. Thomas must be frightened, and he was in pain. And Rey trusted Finn to know what to do.

“Reymund, I’ll need your help as well. You’ll need to hold Thomas steady, at the hips.” To her credit, Rey did not hesitate, though she colored a little. She placed her hands on the patient’s hips at either side and waited for the next instruction. “Push down and keep him still as I work. This is going to hurt, I’m afraid.” Rey looked doubtful given the size of the patient in comparison to her own, but Finn knew she was stronger than she looked.

“All right, Thomas. Brace yourself, I’m going to begin.” Finn took hold of the leg around the thigh. As Rey held the man in place, he pulled downward on the leg with as much force as he could muster, rotating the knee first in toward the other leg, then out in the opposite direction. Thomas’ shoulders came up off the ground as Finn manipulated the injury, his arm muscles straining with the necessary force, Rey’s teeth bared with effort as she held the man down with all her weight. Their patient groaned, ground his teeth, gave a soft sound that was both whimper and scream, and finally yelled “Methuselah’s hairy BALLS!” before his eyes rolled all the way back and he slumped backward. There was an audible “click” as the bone slid back into place.

Finn and Rey regarded each other over the unconscious brazier. Then Rey gave a low, involuntarily burble of laughter. “I...wonder…”, she stammered as she began to laugh harder, “how...he gained....THAT practical experience.” It took Finn, in turn, a moment to realize she was referring to that ridiculous curse (how WOULD Thomas know the state of Methuselah’s anatomy?), then he began to laugh with her. When Thomas stirred and opened his eyes, both of them were holding their sides and laughing while the tears ran down their cheeks.

Thomas eyed them sidelong from the ground. “Well, I’m glad you two are enjoying yourselves, but I…” he paused. “Wait. You fixed it, didn’t you? God’s teeth! How did you do that?” He moved his leg one way, then the other. “It works! My thanks to you both. Are you finished entertaining yourselves, though? Because eventually they’re going to want me out of the street.”

Finn and Rey quickly composed themselves. “Sorry, Thomas,” Rey said. “You might have a good idea, making jokes in an emergency. Okay. Let’s see if we can get you settled on the cart.” She went to get Bastian and the cart while Finn stayed with Thomas. Bastian danced in place a bit, but the crowd was quieter now and he soon settled.

Finn looked Thomas over, gauging his readiness. “Now. We will help you to stand. Place your weight on the leg we have just repaired, and we’ll see about the other.” Thomas nodded. Finn and Rey each took a hand and pulled their patient upright. He must still be in pain, but the grin was genuine this time. He’d been right, Finn thought. Thomas had a friendly, welcoming face. He winced as his weight settled over the newly functional foot and ankle, and drew up his remaining foot as soon as it touched the ground, but he was standing. With the help of a few of the bystanders, they pushed and lifted him into the cart.

…

Ben looked down at the parchment in front of him and laughed. He was forced to stifle himself as a few of the other brothers in the scriptorium hissed and looked disapprovingly at him. Images of all kinds had appeared in his work. Some frightened him, some comforted him, and some merely puzzled him; but this was the first time one of them had truly amused him. He looked at the last line he’d written in the Gospel of Saint Luke before being overwhelmed by the urge to sketch. “And immediately, while he was speaking, the cock crowed.” Serious subject matter, that. But his parchment seemed to have been invaded by a flock of whimsical, angular…well, cocks. He knew, as usual without any idea why, that they were made of brass. And one of them seemed to have broken its leg. He shook his head in bemusement and went back to lettering the text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out that weathercocks are inherently funny. And Snap Wexley is welcome in absolutely anything I'm writing; he has a way of making it fun. Brace yourselves. Thanks as always to my co-authors @leoba and @flypaper-brain for letting me know when it's turning out like it should, for making it more medieval and more Star Wars, and for, well, everything, really. Especially encouraging occasional thirst, humor, and flocks of cocks.
> 
>   
> Just for fun, a non-weathervane rooster from [Walters Art Museum W.102, a Book of Hours, fol. 77v](http://manuscripts.thewalters.org/viewer.php?id=W.102#page/158/mode/2up)


	7. Ferrum et Fides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iron and Faith. In which a chance trip to a monastery is VERY important. There are no coincidences. In which Finn and Rey's faith in each other, and determination to find a man whose name they don't yet know, can only increase. In which we meet some extremely individual nuns, some help on our quest, and a little encouragement. AND in which visions happen. Boy, do they ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side quests sometimes turn out to be of vital importance. And chapters sometimes get out of control (okay, frequently get out of control) until they are two or even three chapters. Be on the lookout for characters, some disguised better than others, some not really disguised at all. The Monasteria de Santa Maria de Moreruela is a real place and was a dual house, convent and monastery side by side. At the time of this story it was in an unclear state of disrepair. Except for the storeroom.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the monastery; about four hours, Thomas thought. The company was definitely helpful. He knew he’d been incredibly lucky to have these two stumble across him. How many monks would have known how to put the joint of his hip back in place? Because of Brother Finn, he was likely to walk again, even if he limped. That they both seemed to have a sense of humor was a bonus. He’d found in his travels that not everyone appreciated his irreverence, particularly in a crisis. That a monk and his...apprentice?...found him amusing was like a gift.

Brother Finn’s only request was that Thomas begin teaching them to speak English. It was the least he could do, really. He already knew Brother Finn had a gift for languages, both the written and spoken variety. But it was the boy that really surprised him. He saw as they travelled that Brother Finn was teaching young Reymund his letters; just the basics, really, starting with the vowels. But the young man, not yet old enough to grow hairs on his chin, was already fluent in his native Spanish as well as Latin; and he drank in English with no trouble at all. Thomas knew English was a difficult language, and he was impressed with the vocabulary Reymund was amassing in this short period of time.

After a couple of hours, they hit a minor snag when one of the cart’s wheels got stuck. Finn was walking by Bastian’s head, as usual, since it seemed to calm and gentle the donkey. The cart gave a lurch, there was a jolt (which ran through his broken leg like fire through dry grass), and they came to an abrupt halt. Thomas could feel the blood draining from his face and was contemplating a nice therapeutic scream, when from the side of the cart where Reymund had been walking he heard “bloody fucking hell!”. In English. He involuntarily snorted, then started laughing. It distracted him from the pain, at least for a moment.

“I did NOT teach him that!”, he called to the front of the cart where Brother Finn was walking back to get a look a the problem. “Not intentionally, that is.” He tried to turn his grimace of pain into an apologetic look. “Sorry about that.” Apparently that didn’t fool Brother Finn, who frowned and gave Thomas’ legs a critical look. A quick examination showed that no further harm had been done.

“Don’t worry, friend Snap,” Finn called over his shoulder as he knelt by the rear left wheel. They’d both begun to use the nickname. Reymund thought it was hilarious once they explained it to him. “Reymund is perfectly capable of picking up any number of skills on his own.” It must be a joke between them, from the smile they shared. Between the two of them, they had the wheel freed in no time at all and they were back on their way. Still, travelling in the cart was not without a good deal of pain, and Thomas was happy to see the elegant curves and arches of the monastery as they approached the gates.

His spirits sank again, however, when he saw the solitary monk standing by the gate, arms raised in a gesture more warding than welcoming. Brother Finn walked forward and briefly conversed with the brother; Thomas couldn’t hear it all, but the words “sickness” and “plague” were definitely used. Damn. He had to see a physician soon, or he’d be out of a livelihood. Finn’s face was still cheerful, though, as he returned to the cart.

“There is currently an outbreak of pox among the brothers here.” Snap wondered why he was still smiling. “However, this is a dual house, brothers and sisters both; and sickness has not reached the sisters in the convent, who isolated themselves from the brothers as soon as word of pox reached them. They have an excellent infirmarian of their own and will be quite able to help you.”

Thomas heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry to hear there’s illness among the brothers, but I’m glad I won’t have to contract the pox to treat a broken leg. That’s like drowning jumping from a burning ship; not really an improvement.” Young Reymund snickered as they turned donkey and cart around and headed for the smaller cluster of buildings.

…

They were greeted at the gate by a diminutive, friendly young nun. “Visitors! How wonderful. I am Sister Mary Cataline. Welcome to Santa Maria de Moreruela. And all…” Rey noticed a sidelong glance from the cheerful porter directed at herself, “gentlemen. And one of you seems to have suffered a mishap? Goodness, how exciting. Oh! Apologies. I mean, how unfortunate. Where are my manners? Delightful to meet you. Let’s see. We’ll need to get this gentleman off to see the infirmarian, Sister Mary Breha. But the walking. How will we...Ah! Yes. The infirmary has its own door, you see, leading out to the herb gardens. So. We will take him, cart and all, to the door and bring him inside there. Yes.” The outpouring of words was bewildering.

The young nun whirled on her heels, clapped her hands, and strode off around the outside of the building. “Come, then! This way. Briskly, please. Better to get the gentleman settled sooner rather than later.” They followed bemusedly in her wake. For someone so small, she certainly generated a great deal of energy. She was a bit like a human tornado. They made a circuit of about a quarter of the building; Finn and Rey had their work cut out for them keeping Bastian and the cart off the garden beds. The paving stones weren’t very comfortable for Snap, evidently; he was gritting his teeth and had turned awfully pale.

They also had to keep Bastian from running over little Mary Cataline when she stopped abruptly in the middle of the path and turned to face them. “Oh! I’m neglecting my duties. What are your names? We’ll need them for the records. Sister Mary Linnet is very particular about her records, she likes everything to be in order. Well, so do I; it’s just our ideas of order aren’t always the same. Oh dear.” She clapped both hands over her mouth. “That’s irrelevant and possibly unflattering to both of us. Extra Ave Marias for me at confession.” She gave them an expectant look. “Names?”

Rey fought a strong urge to giggle. “Of course. I am Reymund of Huelva. Brother Finn and I are taking the pilgrim road to Compostela. Our new friend is Thomas Wexley.” She glanced at Snap. He shook his head, breath whistling through his clenched teeth. Right. “He’s a brazier; he fell from the roof of the mayor’s house at Piedrahita de Castro. This is Bastian.” She pointed at their faithful steed, then picked up the puppy. “And the little one is Octavius. Sorry. I didn’t know whether the animals would be recorded as well?” She looked at Finn. His mouth was twisted with suppressed laughter. He stepped forward and bowed to the sister.

“We were able to treat some of his injuries at the site, but his leg needs to be set and it seems the displaced hip joint is still causing some pain.” Finn frowned. “I’m not a physician. But the brother at the monastery gate said your infirmarian is very skilled.”

Mary Cataline nodded and glanced at Snap. “Oh my. You don’t look comfortable at all. Come, then, come on!”

They reached the infirmary before too long, politely stopping the cart well short of the herb gardens outside its door. And it was just as well that Mary Cataline didn’t appear to speak English, as extrication from the cart caused Thomas to deploy any number of interesting phrases. Rey stored them away for later. They each put one of his arms over one of their shoulders once they got Thomas standing and helped him the few steps to the door. They could hear Mary Cataline giving a rapid fire explanation and introduction as the entered the infirmary.

“Well. Good day to you all. I’m so sorry to see that one of you has been injured. Yes, right here.” Sister Mary Breha seemed considerably more serene than the convent’s porter. She gracefully indicated a cot in the corner of the infirmary. Finn and Rey eased Snap down onto the cot, not without some additional swearing. Rey suspected Sister Mary Breha might have some English, but a raised eyebrow was her only response. “Yes, that’s better. Brother Finn. You treated this gentleman? Explain.”

Finn hesitated for a moment. Rey had learned to read him rather well on their travels, and she thought he was intimidated by the cool, professional infirmarian. She couldn’t imagine why. There couldn’t be many people in the world that could put a leg back in its socket the way Finn had done. It had been like a miracle; and his confident, encouraging directions had helped Rey and Thomas both.

“Thomas had displaced the long bone of the thigh from the joint of the hip. I manipulated the leg in order to reduce the dislocation. It seems to have succeeded. It hasn’t been long yet, but there’s no apparent fever or pain beyond that which might be expected. However, he’s broken his other leg at one of the lower bones, and that will need setting. Since it could wait, I thought it best to consult a physician.”

Both of Sister Mary Breha’s eyebrows were now hovering near her hairline. “My goodness. You’ve been reading your Hippocrates, haven’t you? And you applied his treatise on displacement of the shoulder joint to the lower limbs? How extraordinarily resourceful of you. I’ll have a look, of course, but the mere fact that.. Thomas, is it?...can use the leg would seem to indicate that you’ve done very well indeed. Why don’t you stay here and help me set the broken bone?”

Finn ducked his head at the praise, then gave a delighted smile at the invitation. He immediately began talking with the infirmarian in obscure medical Latin. Finn spared a moment to glance back at Rey; she smiled, and made a shooing gesture to indicate that he was free to indulge his obvious enthusiasm. It was wonderful to see the way it lit up his face. Rey turned to Sister Mary Cataline. “I can see they’re going to be occupied for a while. What next?” They were going to have to examine the patient, after all. It might be best to make an exit.

The young nun smiled and led Rey out the infirmary’s door. “Sister Mary Breha does love a like mind. Yes, of course. Next you’ll need to settle Bastian...it was Bastian, the donkey’s name? Yes. In the stables. You can leave the cart there as well. The stables are a bit further around the back.” She pointed further in the direction they’d been going. “Once you’ve done that, just come back to the entrance gate and I’ll take you to the guest quarters.” She reached into one of the garden beds as they passed and pulled a couple of young carrots. “Here. A treat for all his help.” A couple of dimples made an appearance as she handed the carrots to Rey. Bastian graciously accepted the offering.

Once Rey had settled Bastian in a stall, removed his tack, made sure he was brushed and fed, and grabbed her pack and Finn’s, she made her way back to the main entrance of the convent. Sister Mary Cataline had been joined by another nun. This one was, if possible, even smaller than Mary Cataline; small and rounded and wrinkled with age, like a root vegetable stored for the winter. She also wore a pair of enormous spectacles, something Rey had seen only a few times before. Her smile of greeting was warm; but her eyes were cautious.

“Greetings to you, child. I am Abbess Mary Mazarine and this convent is in my charge. I understand that you are called Reymund, but”...she shared a look with Sister Mary Cataline…”I don’t imagine that is your real name. We are sensitive to the perils of a woman travelling on her own”, she continued, “but eventually Brother Finn is going to learn the truth. Mary Cataline tells me he seems to be a good sort, a true man of God, and it’s not appropriate for you to deceive him.”

Rey had felt the blood rushing to her face, then draining away again as the abbess spoke. But when she heard the abbess say that Finn would learn the truth, she couldn’t help it. The day’s tensions and weariness got the better of her, and she began to chuckle. Sister Mary Cataline looked affronted. The abbess merely crossed her arms and and waited with commendable patience until the laughter slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

Rey composed herself and bowed to the abbess. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that it’s been such a long road. Brother Finn already knows. Disguising me was his idea. He needed a guide through Spain, and that is where I was born. He thought men’s garb was the best way of keeping me safe. Ask him! He cut my hair himself.” She raised a hand to where she could still feel the phantom brush and sway of long tresses across her shoulders. “I’m Rey.”

Mary Mazarine’s face softened. “Well, that is an entirely different matter. And certainly simplifies matters of lodgings and hospitality. You, dear girl, shall stay with us here inside the convent proper. Brother Finn will be housed in the visitor’s quarters. It seems Master Wexley will be staying in the infirmary for some time. But don’t worry, he’ll be looked after quite well.” She smiled.

“I’m glad to hear it. We’ve only just met, but I’m quite fond of him already”, Rey said, smiling back at the diminutive abbess. “But shouldn’t I stay in the stables with Bastian or something like? “ She looked at the sisters, neat as pins in their formal habits. “I’m just, I’m absolutely FILTHY.” She looked down at herself and indicated her clothing with a helpless wave.

Sister Mary Cataline glanced sidelong at the abbess, who nodded. “Now THAT we can fix. Right. Off to the baths with you, then something new to wear, I think...Sister Mary Linnet will know where any stray boys’ clothing might be about the place. She knows where EVERYTHING is, it is her vocation, after all. And then a good meal, and then you must tell us your story. Oh, and Mother, Brother Finn will need the same, so I’ll arrange some sort of bath in the guest quarters, and ask Linnet if there are any spare robes filed away. And let’s see, Thomas will need a tray in the infirmary, and so will Mary Breha since she’ll be tending him…” Her voice trailed off as she began putting words to action and marched off down the corridor. The abbess just waved a hand and nodded, evidently used to this sort of conversation.

Rey was taking every advantage of a tub full of hot water (knowing it had been heated and added by the bucketful, for which she was extremely grateful) when there came a knock at the door. She thought for a moment, then called out “Come in. Unless you’re Brother Finn. In which case, perhaps best not.” The door opened, and an unfamiliar sister stepped into the room with a very odd combination of hesitation and enthusiasm. Rey had not previously realized those two feelings could be not only combined, but expressed just by walking into a room.

“Hello! You must be Rey.” She shook her head. “No, Linnet, Reymund. Call him Reymund. I’m Sister Mary Linnet. I have clothes.” She held them out to show Rey and gave a sudden, sweet smile. “I think we’re going to be friends.” She was a little taller than her sisters (which admittedly wasn’t very difficult), with a friendly face, a pair of spectacles not nearly as ludicrously large as those of the abbess, and a few strands of brown hair escaping her wimple. All in all, she reminded Rey of a little brown sparrow.

Evidently the clothes in question had belonged to a very tall, skinny boy. Soon enough Rey and Sister Mary Linnet were laughing together while rolling up the legs and sleeves. The sister was kind enough to help Rey with her bindings and had managed to find a comb and wonder of wonders, a mirror. Rey was moved to near tears by the unexpected kindness. She’d never seen herself before except for the odd puddle or pond. She raised a hand wonderingly to lift the short strands of hair sticking to her damp face. “Thank you so much, Sister Mary Linnet. I feel so much better now that I’m clean.”

“Linnet. Just Linnet. It gets so tiresome using all our names; anyway, we’re all Sister Mary Something.” She gave Rey a sympathetic look. “We cut our hair too, you know. When we take our final vows. Don’t worry. Before long you’ll wonder how you got along with all that hair in the way. And if you miss it, just remember, it will grow. When you’re yourself again you can do whatever you like with it. You must be hungry. Would you like something to eat?”

Rey found herself being led through a maze of corridors, installed at a table, and was sitting in front of a hearty meal before she really knew what was happening. No one had taken care of her like this in...no one had EVER taken care of her like this. She and Finn were partners; good ones, equal and strong; but she’d never really (except perhaps for her brief time with Dorothea) had the chance to just sit and be without cares. She could actually FEEL herself relax. They chatted about nothing while they ate; the garden, the food, the hardships of the Road. Rey felt at home.

…

Finn could have spent all day talking about medical techniques with Sister Mary Breha. Her scholarship was impeccable, and her serenity commendable. He took mental notes on her interactions with Thomas; her presence alone seemed to be calming. Before long, they’d worked together to set the bones in Snap’s leg (he’d managed to break both of them), and Sister Mary Breha had given him a thorough and dispassionate examination after dosing him with what she told Finn was poppy syrup. Finn was glad to see his new friend’s face relax, the constant pain smoothed into sleep. He spoke with the infirmarian a bit longer, and left with the tantalizing promise that he could return the next day to check on Thomas and borrow some of the convent’s medical texts.

When he left the infirmary, Sister Mary Cataline showed him to the guest quarters. It might have been his imagination, but he thought she looked a bit less friendly than before, which puzzled him. But there was no decrease in her efficiency; she had both his pack and himself installed in the cell he was to occupy, a bath ready before he would have thought it possible (there wasn’t a large tub available for the guest quarters, she explained, but smaller vessel and hot water and soap should serve his needs well enough), and a set of northern-style monk’s robes ready for him when he was finished.

“If you’ll follow me, Brother Finn, the abbess would like to speak with you.” Where had all the words gone? This was worrying. He followed Sister Mary Cataline with a certain amount of trepidation until he lost track of the turns they’d taken and doors they’d passed. The little nun knocked respectfully on an imposing wooden door, then opened it. Finn knew immediately that he was in the presence of a true elder and the woman in charge of this place. He was almost surprised when it registered after a few moments that the woman seated at the writing desk, regarding him impassively, was tiny. He only vaguely noticed Sister Mary Cataline leaving the room.

“Brother Finn. Welcome to Santa Maria de Moreruela. I am Abbess Mary Mazarine. And you have some explaining to do. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me as to why you, a man pledged to God, have disguised a young woman as a boy and taken her far from her home.” She steepled her fingers in front of her and awaited a response. He had to swallow audibly before he could formulate an answer. When he did, he saw just the slightest twitch at the corner of the abbess’ mouth and and the tiniest of twinkles in her eyes. He must look as terrified as he felt. He searched his memory for the correct form of address.

“Mother…” and as the word left his lips, he suddenly knew that he could trust this tiny, wise woman. As he began to speak, he could feel the weight leaving his shoulders; the secret he and Rey shared and the sense he had sometimes that they were alone, small travelers in a vast, empty landscape. “It is a very long story and I hope that you believe it. If I were not part of this, I wouldn’t believe it myself.”

He told her everything. He couldn’t seem to help it. He told her about his trip to receive the gift and the joy it had given him to be chosen and to see more of the world. He described his return home, and his brother’s madness. He told her of his wounding, and Novenario’s fall and his death. And then he told her about the vision and that he’d simply known what he must do. He recalled his encounter with Rey and how she’d seemed a gift, this slip of a girl who knew what to do next. Finn told the abbess of their travels together, of Rey’s effortless competence and her kindness and her strength.

Finn looked at the abbess, but as of yet she’d said nothing. She simply projected a sort of receptive, neutral patience. He explained his reasoning in suggesting Rey disguise herself as a boy, and lamented the way it had seemed to hurt her when he cut her hair. He took the book out of his satchel and showed it to Mother Mary Mazarine to illustrate what had happened when Rey found the book. He told her of their second shared vision, and showed her the marginalia and its smoky intruder. And then he confessed what he hadn’t yet been able to tell Rey herself.

“And always when I see her in vision, she appears as an angel, a sword of light in her hand, with wings like those of a great falcon. I…” he looked down at his feet. “I don’t know how to tell her this. Or whether I should tell her. Much of the time, she doesn’t recognize her own worth, which astounds me, and I hesitate to place a further burden on her. Would it sap her strength when she needs it most, or help her understand what she is meant to do?” He stopped. He hadn’t understood until he’d let the whole story pass his lips exactly how mad it must sound. The abbess would be well within her rights to have him confined, dosed, or exorcised. So be it. He felt somehow that this abbess, this Mother, could be trusted with his fears, his worries, and his soul.

Mother Mary Mazarine gave Finn a careful, considering look. “My son, when you have been on this earth as long as I have, eventually you see the same eyes in different people. I am looking at the eyes of a man who doubts. Do you truly not believe that Rey can do what is needed?”

Finn took a deep breath. “Of course I doubt. I have doubts about my strength, about my actions, about the road ahead. At various points I have doubted my own sanity. If you had seen what I have seen, the evil at work in visions and dreams extending its influence over our own waking world, you too would doubt. If you had seen the madness that took my brother when all he should have seen were the words of God; all of us should fear such a thing. But do I doubt Rey? Never. No matter what she thinks about herself, I know her strength, and she is capable, and powerful, kind and strong enough for any road and any fight.”

The abbess smiled. “Then you have your answer. The faith you have in her can only make her stronger. Tell her what you have seen. Tell her _how_ you see her. As many times and in as many ways as she needs. The two of you, your eyes show your strength, and your kindness too. Those eyes tell me that you are stronger together than you are apart.”

She paused and took one of his hands. “And Brother, you must have more faith in yourself if you are to help her in this way. I cannot imagine the courage it must have taken to leave at a moment’s notice the only way of life that you had ever known, and even more to commit your whole heart to a new and beautiful cause. Both of you! Do not mistake the fears and doubts you may experience for cowardice; it is only when we experience perfectly reasonable fear that bravery becomes a possibility.”

“Mother…”, Finn was speechless. The abbess, that ancient, wise woman, politely looked down and uttered a short prayer, still holding his hand in her own, while Finn regained his composure and brushed the tears from his cheeks.

“Now.” The abbess stood. Finn rose as she did with proper respect, then found he had to put a hand on the desk to steady himself; he was suddenly light-headed with hunger and relief. Mother Mary Mazarine’s eyes, sharp behind her spectacles, missed nothing. “This is a place of welcome and healing hospitality. One mustn’t neglect the body while caring for the soul, and I have been questioning you too long after the long, weary road you’ve walked. Come, my son, and we will fortify the rest of you.”

“Thank you, Mother.” He hoped his eyes conveyed everything for which he was giving thanks. Finn followed the abbess to the refectory, and was seated at a table with a plate in front of him before he quite registered that Rey was here too. He smiled at her, there at her table across the room. She was engaged in conversation with a cheerful nun he hadn’t yet met, and seemed more relaxed than either of them had been in some time. It seemed they’d both set down at least a little of their shared burden here. The abbess started over to the table where Rey was; Finn didn’t know if he should stand, or acknowledge her departure in some way, but she shook her head and waved a hand at the food in front of him. He tucked straight into the simple fare and felt a loosening of the tightness in his shoulders that he hadn’t even known was there.

…

Rey was just finishing her meal when Abbess Mary Marazine approached. “No, don’t hurry, child, I’m merely borrowing Sister Mary Linnet for a moment. We can’t find a thing without her, you see.” The two nuns engaged in a quiet discussion; Linnet seemed startled and enthused by turns. The abbess turned back to Rey. “If you’re finished and you wouldn’t mind, there are a few things we’ll need to get from our archive storeroom; can you go along and help Sister Mary Linnet bring them here? I need to organize our next hour of prayer, and I’ll be with you in no time.”

Rey rose from her seat at the table. “Of course. I’d be happy to help, you’ve been so kind. Lead the way.”

They wove through a different tangle of corridors this time, coming to a small metal-strapped wooden door. Linnet took a large, ornate key from the belt at her waist and unlocked the door. When they stepped across the threshold, Rey saw...everything. She could never have imagined the combination of objects contained in this room. There were a good many religious icons and works of art; statues, paintings, figures, and other things. Candles were stacked neatly in one corner; more than Rey had ever seen in one place at the same time. There were a few shelves of books; this wasn’t a library, but evidently a few books were stored here as well. Vestments and habits and other articles of clothing were neatly hung on hooks; Rey guessed this was the origin of the clothes both she and Finn were currently wearing.

Some of the things in the room were harder to explain. There was...jewelry? Brooches and pendants and even some ear-rings, displayed neatly in rows. Rey hadn’t seen any of the nuns wearing more than a simple cross; some of these pieces looked expensive, to Rey’s untrained eye. She wondered what they were doing here. Why not ask? “Linnet, what is all this? I see jewelry and some of this looks like gold and...is that armor?” She pointed at the pile of metal rings she’d spotted to one side of the shelves.

“Yes it is! That is a chainmail shirt left with us by a wounded knight who passed through here, oh, 5 years ago. He was a Dane in the service of Queen Margaret of the Kalmar Union, if you can believe that, who took the pilgrim Road in hopes that his wound would finally fully heal and he could better serve his Queen. He was quite devoted to her. The armor had become too heavy for him to bear; he said he’d continue on as a simple pilgrim and hope that his sacrifice would be pleasing to God. He left his axe, too, it’s right over…” she pointed a precise finger into the opposite corner of the room, where Rey now saw a tidy collection of weapons…”there.”

Rey shook her head. “Are these all items left by pilgrims? How do you keep track of all of them?” She waved a hand at the bewildering array.

Linnet’s eyebrows rose and her face grew serious. “They’re all part of our story. We pray, and make pilgrims comfortable, and see them fed and sometimes healed. And each time a pilgrim passes through our doors, we become a little part of their story, and they of ours. Each of these things is part of someone’s life, and its history tells the tale of how they became part of our lives, if only for a little while. Someone needs to remember each part and person, so no one’s story is ever lost.” She turned and walked over to the same neat assortment of weapons she’d just indicated. “Mother Abbess has told me that we have something here that may be part of your story. You never know when one story is going to collide with another. Heaven has evidently been working on this one for a long time. Aha. There it is, exactly where I left it.”

The archivist turned and held the object out to Rey in both of her hands. It was a sword, still sheathed. All Rey could see of it was the handle, she didn’t know the proper name for it, and the side pieces that gave a sword its cross shape. Those parts and the end of the sword had jewels set in them, blue ones, deep like the ocean she now knew; and etched between them was a design that looked like two suns, side by side. She looked at Linnet. “You want _me_ to…?” The archivist nodded and spoke again. “One sword of fine steel, pommel and quillons set with sapphires of reasonable quality, hilt etched with a heraldic design of twin suns. It was left at this convent some forty years ago by a young Hospitaller named Luke. I’m told that he said his surname was of no importance and it was best the family name attached to this blade be forgotten. Go ahead.” She proffered the sword again, held formally across both her hands as though it were part of some important ceremony.

Rey grasped the hilt (that was the word) of the sword in one hand and drew back the sheath with the other. She handed the sheath to Linnet and stepped back into the center of the room. The sword was heavy, Rey knew that, though it was on the small side for such a blade, she thought; but her time on the Road and her practice with Finn had made her stronger, and she found that she was easily able to swing the weapon back and forth, and even to move it in circles with one hand. It felt _right_ in her hand, as though she were meant to hold it. It was all going very well for her first time daring to try such a thing; and then she lost control of the blade for an instant.

She managed to keep her hands on the hilt to avoid hitting Sister Mary Linnet, whose eyes had widened through wonder to enthusiasm to pure alarm; but as she regained control, the sword’s blade swung into a small piece of statuary that had been sitting on a nearby pedestal, breaking it into several pieces as it crashed to the floor. Shocked, she put a hand to her mouth and just looked at the archivist.

…

Linnet could feel the panic run through her veins like fire and ice as she looked down at the broken statue, setting her heart pounding and her stomach churning. What was that piece? Her mind ran through the catalog of people and objects and history and stories that was always there, just under the surface of what she said and did.

An icon of Our Lady, donated by a noblewoman on pilgrimage about 10 years ago. Oh, THAT woman. She’d complained about the food, the accommodations, and the company. Edith, that was her name. And the icon she donated had been spectacularly ugly. Oh, dear. She’d better clean up the mess and figure out how to put it back together. But how was she going to do that? She looked back up and found Rey regarding her with horror, hand to her mouth.

What came out of Linnet’s own mouth next was as much a surprise to her as it would have been to anyone else; a chuckle, followed by “I never liked that thing anyway. I always thought it made Our Lady look like a cow.” She clapped both her hands over her mouth, imagining all the Pater Nosters she’d be saying at their next Confession. “Let me get a broom.” She started to walk toward the cleaning supplies, and with utterly inevitable results, tripped over both Rey’s feet and her own, knocking them both to the floor and smashing the icon to powder. They were lucky neither of them had landed on the blade. Linnet and the young woman stared at each other for several heartbeats; then a giggle burst out of Linnet before she could stop it. It was joined by Rey’s matching giggle, and that was the end of any coherence for either of them.

…

Finn wondered where exactly Rey had gone. He’d seen her leaving the refectory with that same sister, the one with whom she’d been talking while she ate. He saw the abbess pass the doorway on her way back from who knew where (he was sure she had all sorts of important responsibilities that were none of his business) and hurriedly got up from the remains of his meal to hail her as she passed. “Mother?” He hastily sketched a bow. “Do you know where Reymund has gone? I’d like the three of us to talk, if we may, and examine the book I showed you.”

The abbess raised a skeptical eyebrow at the use of the name Reymund, then nodded. “ _Mais oui._ I sent her with our archivist, Sister Mary Linnet. There was an...item left here decades ago that seemed relevant to the task ahead of you. Come with me and I’ll show you.” She frowned. “I would have thought they’d be back by now.” She set out at a brisk walk. It was surprisingly hard to keep up considering her stature. Finn took the book from his satchel as they walked; it seemed safe to do so, here in the company of Mother Mary Mazarine.

They heard the two women before they saw them. As they approached a door that had been left slightly ajar, they could hear laughter from the inside of the room. Finn opened the door for the abbess, and as they entered they saw Rey and someone who must be Sister Mary Linnet sitting on the floor, both holding their sides and red-faced from laughing. They calmed down a bit when they realized they were no longer alone and began wiping the tears from the corners of their eyes. The abbess merely waited, eyebrow once again raised and arms patiently crossed, hands tucked into her sleeves.

Finn stepped forward and offered an arm to each of them to help them up from the floor; it was only then that he noticed Rey was holding a sword. The archivist, a friendly-faced nun who looked as though she’d be close to his own height upon standing, had taken one of his hands. Rey reached for the other; evidently she’d also forgotten that she was holding the sword. Her hand met Finn’s and the sword met the book he was holding; and the world fell away.

…

Linnet had just taken the hand of the handsome monk (stop that, she told herself sternly) when his other hand and the book it was holding met the sword in Rey’s. Brother Finn’s hand went slack; she held onto it as she sank abruptly back onto the floor of the storeroom. She looked up to see the two of them stock-still, Rey still on the floor and Finn bent to give her his hand, eyes locked on each other but unseeing. At least not anything here in this room. Linnet held her breath, wondering what was next, when the sword in Rey’s hand seemed suddenly alight. She could feel her jaw drop, eyes round with awe, and her hair stood on end as the room seemed to glow a deep blue, the blue of Mazarine’s name, of the mantle of Our Lady. She prayed, not with head bowed but with hands clasped and tearful eyes open to the miracle in front of her; her faith renewed and fulfilled after all these years guarding the stories of the Road. Linnet didn’t know what lay before these two, but she knew that whatever it was, she wished them joy and success with her whole heart and all her restored faith in Heaven.

...

Rey saw a stage; stark, black, and seemingly empty. Then she saw the man slumped in the shadows. He’d be tall, she thought, when he stood; broad-shouldered and imposing. But right now he was sitting, back bowed, hands covering his face; the picture of despair. She strode forward to go to him and noticed the sword in her hand. She could see it clearly now, the same blade she’d just been holding. Her own shoulders felt oddly heavy and unbalanced, and she felt the brush of a robe or skirts around her legs as she walked. The sword, though, felt perfectly balanced and meant for her hand. As she approached, the man raised his head from his hands and looked up at her. She couldn’t suppress a gasp; he was masked, his whole face covered with what looked like iron, made in the shape of a man’s face, but somehow black as pitch, inlaid with silvery patterns. All she could see were his eyes. Those held her transfixed; pinned in place as though her feet had been nailed to the floor. They were dark and beautiful, those eyes, but filled with light; and they looked at her as though she were the only hope of Heaven. She found that she could move again, and extended the hand that wasn’t holding a sword. The man, taking a swift, deep breath, held his own hand out to her.

As their fingers met, the sword in her other hand began to glow with a rich, blue light, like sun on the water. The eyes behind the mask widened; the mysterious man threw his other arm over his face in the sudden glare. And Rey felt, at her back where the odd sensation lay, a motion and feeling she couldn’t identify; until she saw the wings unfurling on either side of her, feathers rustling as they spread out wider and wider. She heard Finn’s voice, out of seemingly empty air, say “Angel”, and felt his hand at her back, steadying and supporting her as he always did. It was a moment before she realized the wings were her own.

…

Finn found himself in a blasted landscape. Jagged shapes clawed into the air, like the bones of long-dead trees. The ground beneath his feet was strangely uneven, which puzzled him until the realization dawned. There were bodies everywhere; all marked with violence, faces staring with their last terror. He stumbled back and raised his eyes to see a company of knights. They stood in a rough circle, clad in black robes and use-darkened armor, streaked and spattered with gore.

In the center of the circle stood a tall figure, armored and helmed, clothed and cloaked in darkness. He was motionless, standing with his hands resting on the pommel of a greatsword, streaked along its entire length with what was unmistakably blood, fresh and nearly glowing red. No, it _was_ glowing; light flickered along its length as though all the blood were aflame. It wasn’t until the man turned to look around him that Finn saw the wings folded at his back. They were large and beautiful and reminded him of the angels’ wings Rey always wore when he saw her in vision. But _his_ pinions were black as a starless sky, with nothing to guide a traveler home.

He turned and stepped toward Finn, this man, this fallen angelic knight, gazing into the distance at the havoc he’d wrought. Words and letters seemed to trail behind him in the air, going out into the world; but they were _wrong_ , Finn could feel, twisted and harmful and full of madness. The man faced Finn, his inky feathers stirring in the cold wind while his fiery blade trailed sparks over the barren earth. The knights surrounding him seemed to see nothing, eyes locked on their dark general. But despite the distance between them, Finn could see the man’s eyes in exacting detail. He knew those eyes; he’d seen them once before, pleading for his help. He knew all at once that this was the man they sought, and the fate that lay before him if they failed.

…  
Ben was dreaming, he knew. Or was he? It was sometimes difficult to tell dreams from waking with the images that constantly beat against the edges of his mind. There was the stage, familiar source of his nightly dread. There was the smoke, trickling in from all sides, that announced the arrival of his foe, dark inspiration and torment all in one. He felt at his face; there was the mask, to divide him from his waking self. He waited, head bowed, for the words and figures that would follow. Instead he heard a rushing sound, like a roar and a whisper in one. It was the sound of the sea.

The smoke around him began to be joined with the crackle of flames; Ben retreated to the center of the black floor, flinching from the heat. But just as it grew to be more than he could bear, the rush and roar of the water increased, and the sea itself, smelling of salt and capped with foam, crashed into the stage on which he stood. He watched in disbelief as one great wave arched over and onto the floor and from its crest stepped his protectors. He knew them, though he couldn’t see them clearly; for in one hand the angel held its sword, here outlined in blue light, somehow both deep and bright. Ben threw an arm over his face as it grew to blinding brilliance, tears springing from his eyes and blurring the hope he knew was on its way. And with that thought, he sat up in bed, hair wet with seawater, vision obscured with, he thought, smoke and tears. But he smiled nonetheless. He might yet be spared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost none of this was in the story at the beginning. The Force is at work, as @flypaper-brain tells me while she works at making it more Star Wars and she and @leoba continue to encourage, embellish, educate, edit, and just generally co-author the dickens out of this.


	8. Aves, Arbores et Ancora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8: Birds, Trees, and Hope In which the absence of coincidence becomes increasingly apparent. Forces are at work. In which our heroes receive some much-needed guidance and care. Be sure to plant your pine trees when you're finished eating them. And in which history, memory, and purpose collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some pretty important parts of this came as a surprise to me. I loved writing Mother Mary Mazarine and her faithful Sister Mary Linnet so much; how important manuscripts and scribes continue to be, thanks to @leoba, and I'm having a great deal of fun both concealing and revealing canon references, thanks to @flypaper-brain. I hope you like them too. Important clues are here, the game is afoot!
> 
> When I looked up the word hope, I found this under the list of possible Latin translations (yes, it's Google translate, I know, I know, but listen):  
> ancora: anchor, refuge, hope, support And it was perfect.

Linnet hardly dared breathe as the blue glow, the miracle, slowly dimmed until it was gone.  Rey and Finn were still frozen, gazing at each other but not seeing. As she watched, Rey stirred slightly, the sword wavering in her hand.  She slowly blinked; once, then again, and it was as though Linnet could watch her soul come back to her body and her face come to life. She looked wonderingly around the room for a moment, confused; then her eyes focused on Finn.  As they both watched, he gradually sank to his knees, but his eyes were still empty. Something was wrong.

 

Rey frowned.  “Finn?” There was no response.  The book slid from his nerveless fingers and hit the floor of the storeroom with a _crack_.  Rey’s face began to look frightened.  She took both of his hands in hers. “Finn!”  Linnet wished there was some way she could help, but all she knew to do was pray.  She thought of Hildegard of Bingen, whose visions had shown men as living sparks of God’s love, and prayed for the spark to return.  Rey, her face now frantic, leaned forward and pressed her brow against Brother Finn’s, her hands on either side of his face “Finn, where are you?  Come back to me. I need you. Please?” She stayed like that. Linnet couldn’t have said how long, but it seemed an eternity. She could hear Mother Mary Mazarine praying where she still stood in the doorway.

 

“Infinitas.”  His voice was rough.  Linnet looked up to see the light return to Finn’s face and joyful tears on Rey’s.  They smiled at each other as they drew back, kneeling together with hands clasped, oblivious to their surroundings.

 

“What?” Rey frowned, puzzled.  “Finn, are you all right? What happened to you?  What do you mean, infinitas?” She put her hand to his head as though to check for fever.

 

He took the hand back in his own.  “I’m all right. That’s my name. I heard you calling me.  I was afraid that I couldn’t come back. It was…” He shook his head.  “I’ll tell you what I saw. But I heard you calling my name and I felt you leading me home.  Brother Yohannes, who had charge of me when I was a child, named me Infinitas. He said it was because my questions were infinite.  I told you it was short for something.”

 

Rey sniffed, then chuckled through her tears.  “Oh. Hello there. I’m Reyna. I never used my whole name.  It seemed silly to call myself a queen. I heard you, too. You called me angel.  And so I was. You steadied me.” She leaned against him, and he against her. They both looked exhausted.  Linnet suddenly realized she was sitting in a pile of pottery shards. That wouldn’t do at all. She got up and busied herself with the broom she’d been on her way to collect, what seemed like a hundred years ago.  It also gave her chance to surreptitiously brush the tears from her own cheeks.

 

Mother Mary Mazarine stepped from the doorway to regard the pair.  “Well. It seems you have much to tell us as well as something to show us.”  She stooped to pick the book up from the floor where it lay. “And I have a story to tell you as well.  Let us return to my office. We have much to discuss. Linnet, I see you there, come along, you’re obviously meant to hear this as well.  Whether anyone else here is a part of this tale remains to be seen.”

 

…

 

They gathered in the abbess’ office.  She had Sister Mary Cataline bring them some herbal decoction, something soothing from Sister Mary Breha.  Finn found he needed it more than he would have suspected; he and Rey were both still trembling. The warmth and scent were welcome.  He occupied and calmed himself identifying the herbs he thought might be in it; he could smell chamomile and lavender, and he thought perhaps she’d snuck a bit of valerian into it, which was probably wise under the circumstances.  Finn glanced at Rey, who seemed shaken but was taking deep breaths of fragrant steam as she wrapped her hands around her cup. He took a drink and waited for the Mother Abbess to begin.

 

“So.  I will tell you my part of this tale first.  Many years ago; two-score, if memory serves, we had two memorable guests here at Santa Maria de Moreruela.  The first was a young woman walking the Road as prayer and plea for a child. Her man had been at war, he’d been wounded; in body, mind, and soul, I would think, and they needed a reminder that life continues.”  Finn felt sorry for the long-ago pilgrim, though he wasn’t sure how this related. “The second was a knight; a Hospitaller, to be precise. He, too, had been wounded in heart and spirit and body; he’d nearly lost a hand fighting far from home.  They were both convinced that the world had stopped making sense.” She shook her head.

 

“He was staying with the brothers at the monastery, naturally, but he wandered into our gardens by mistake.”  The abbess smiled fondly, lost in memory. “He was tired, and angry, a good man baffled and damaged by the sights he’d seen.  And she, in her own way, was struggling with the aftermath of battle. They both needed a reminder that life is resilient; it reaches to come to be, and it persists.”  She shook her head again, her wimple rustling. “But that is something I will show you tomorrow, children. The Hospitaller came to understand that he no longer wished to fight, to do violence to those he did not even know in the name of yet another stranger.  He laid down his sword and left it here with us as a sign that he would pursue peace, and learning, and the care of souls.”

 

Rey looked at the sword where it lay across the abbess’ desk.  “And this sword belonged to him? But why did you think it might be meant for me?”

 

Mother Mary Mazarine peered over her spectacles at the two of them.  “I have my reasons. But it is enough to know that a sword laid down to further the care of souls might best be picked up again to save one.  And I think what we have just experienced is proof enough that this blade is part of your story.”

 

Sister Linnet nodded, her face eager.  “It was a miracle. There’s no doubt the two of you are touched by Our Lady.  Mother has told me the bones of your story. Whoever this young man may be, I have every faith that he will be saved.  But you’ve brought us another part of the story.” She gestured to the book sitting on the desk next to the sword. “Tell us about it.”

 

Finn gave her a condensed version of the events that had led him here.  “The trouble is, I don’t know who he is. I know he is the scribe who wrote and illuminated this book; he must be.  And I know it came from England. But that’s all. And…”, he shuddered, thinking of the blasted charnel field and the eyes he’d seen, emptied of any light in his vision.  “I know we must find him. If we cannot save this man, his own soul and those of many others may be lost. I don’t know if I could bear to see him fall.”

 

Rey nodded.  “His eyes ask for help.  Finn, do you think the answer is in the book?”  She waved a frustrated hand at the desk. “Maybe if I’d been able to stay with my family, I’d have learned to read and I could be of some help here.”

 

The abbess gave her a sympathetic look.  “There’s no need to look to your past. It has happened, it’s gone and it won’t be coming back.  But…”, she leaned forward in emphasis, “the belonging you seek is not behind you. It is ahead. The two of you are strong.  Your lives have shaped you for this, brought you to where you were needed. But as you know, there is another.”

 

Her gaze turned inward.  “I have studied, in my lifetime, the scholars of many lands, spoken with their people as they crossed my threshold.  And three is the strongest number of all. We see it it our own Trinity, the balance of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Hebrew scholars know it as the number of completeness. The Celts know it as the Awen, the symbol of opposites and the balance between them and with them.  Even in the East, far away down what was once the Silk Road, the significance of this number is known. When you find this man, when he finds you, then you will be where you were meant to be.  You’ll have found your true belonging.”

 

Finn noticed that Sister Mary Linnet had been thoughtfully examining the book as they spoke, looking through its pages and turning it over in her hands.  He suspected that her sharp eyes missed nothing, even while she listened to them speak and while she sorrowed over the damage to the beautiful volume. This theory was confirmed when she gave a cry of delight.  “I’ve found something! Look.” She drew a scrap of parchment out from under the inside cover of the Gospels.

 

Finn stared.  “That was not there before.”  How could he possibly have missed it?  He’d carried this book across staggering distances, examined it minutely for any sense of the reason his brother had died.  And here Sister Mary Linnet had had it in her hands for all of ten minutes. He thought about being angry, or jealous, but the sister’s delight was infectious and he was overcome with curiosity.

 

The sister waved the parchment for emphasis.  “No, I’m sure it wasn’t. It was under the inside of the cover.  I’d have never found it, but you dropped the book...I mean, it fell from your hand when you were lost in vision.  The boards and cover cracked, just a little. I can see they were cracked before, but this time, a bit of the inside cover peeled back from the boards.  It never would have been visible otherwise.” She started, as though she’d just remembered she was holding it, and spread the parchment out on the desk atop the book.

 

Rey leaned forward and turned the parchment toward herself.  “It’s a map!” She turned to Finn. “Isn’t it? This is...a building.  And see, here, he’s drawn trees and gardens and even little people. Monks.  Little drawings of monks. And here, that’s a stable, but he hasn’t drawn any horses. I wonder why not.  But Finn, what does it say?” He could see Mother Mary Mazarine and Sister Mary Linnet beginning to smile.  They knew the answer, but they waited politely for him to speak.

 

Finn was filled with gratitude that this scribe had taken the time to amuse himself; to draw and conceal this map in what must have been a moment of whimsy.  He’d known, when he saw the bull of Saint Luke, that the scribe had a sense of humor; but to leave a secret like this for others to find showed a clever mind and a love of making things just for the joy of themselves.  He felt a sense that something powerful was being set in motion, being brought into place; as though somewhere a vast lock had just been opened, its key found at last. “It says Abbey of Saint Augustine. Now we know where to go.”

 

…

 

“Abbey of Saint Augustine.”  She could hardly believe it.  They had a destination. “How will we get there?  Where is it?”

 

Mother Mary Mazarine folded her hands together.  “In England, as Brother Finn had already surmised.  It is in a city called Canterbury. Some pilgrims choose to take ship on the Mare Tenebrosum at Finisterre. I think it will be best suited to your needs.  It shouldn’t be difficult to find passage to England; then you’ll journey overland to Canterbury.”

 

Rey had never heard of those places, but they did not sound at all welcoming.  “So...we’re to go to the End of the Earth and sail the Sea of Darkness?”

 

Sister Mary Linnet nodded.  “That particular area is locally known as the Costa da Morte…”.  The sentence trailed off as Linnet realized what she’d just said.

 

Finn puzzled over the Spanish dialect words for a moment, then his eyes widened.  “Doesn’t that mean…?” He looked at Rey for confirmation.

 

She sighed, and nodded.  “It’s called the Coast of Death.  Even better.” She looked at Finn with concern.  The vision they’d both just experienced had been hard on him; for a few terrifying minutes she’d thought she might not get him back; that he would be lost, and the man they both needed lost with him.

 

Finn gave her a serious look in return, but she could see the glint of humor in his eyes.  “Well, at least it doesn’t sound frightening.” They were both just exhausted enough to find that highly amusing.  The two sisters waited with commendable patience for them to stop giggling.

 

Rey described what she’d seen for the sisters, from the man in despair and the eyes behind the mask to the wings that had sprung from her back and the way Finn had been with her.  She looked over to see him nodding as she finished.

 

“Always when I have seen you in vision, you have been an angel, winged and surrounded by light.”  He ducked his head. “I didn’t know how to tell you, or whether I should. At first, we were too new to each other, and it seemed presumptuous to say such a thing; or mad.  And as I came to know you, and understood that you were more than equal to the task, it was impossible to know how to begin.” He looked at the Mother Abbess, unsure how to continue.

 

“I think…”, she said, “that you appear here as you are needed, as you must strive to be.  A defender, a healer, a light to one in darkness. Visions such as these are difficult to understand.  Countless scholars, visionaries, and saints have tried. When you are needed, you will know what to do.”  

 

Sister Linnet nodded.  “One needn’t be an angel on earth in truth to bring hope of Heaven to another.”  She dimpled. “And you are most definitely human. I don’t think an angel has ever needed a wash that much; and all those feathers would never have fit in the bath.”  She smiled at Rey, who grinned at her in return.

 

Mother Mary Mazarine turned to Finn.  “And you, Brother? What did you see?”

 

Finn shuddered.  “I saw him; our scribe.  But he was...much altered.  He, too, bore wings upon his back, but there was no light in him, in his eyes.  And…” He faltered, shaking his head. “Enough to know we cannot fail him.” Finn’s own eyes were haunted.

 

Rey would have said anything to spare him from having to relive what he’d seen.  She thought of what he’d said when he came back to her. “Finn, you said the brother who raised you named you because of all your questions.  Was he terribly strict? Did he answer all your questions, or only scold you for asking?” She took his hand. Across the desk, she could see that the two nuns had opened the book to see whether it would yield any more help or answers.

 

Finn smiled.  That was better.  “Brother Yohannes wasn’t all that bad.  He answered my questions as best he could; but at his age, even his Amharic, our language, had become very muddled, and he tended to wander through his sentences.  But he had a wicked humor, when one could understand it; and he cared very much about what kind of man I would turn out to be.” Finn interrupted himself with an enormous yawn; Rey could hardly help but follow suit.  “He was just very, very old; diminutive, bent-backed with age.” He chuckled softly. “And he had a set of particularly hairy ears...I…”

 

…

 

Linnet looked up from the book; she and Mother Mary Mazarine had been examining an especially unhappy-looking bull with tiny wings when they realized Brother Finn had stopped speaking.  He and Rey had both fallen asleep, hands still clasped, with their heads together like children telling secrets. She exchanged a glance with the abbess; they both felt a pang of regret that they had to wake the pair; but needs must.  Mother Mary Mazarine had been too long away from her responsibilities already; Sister Mary Cataline was recruited to show Rey to her room, which she managed with her usual brisk efficiency. And Linnet was left to guide Finn with a hand under his elbow as he stumbled sleepily back to the guest quarters.  

 

...  

 

Finn was awakened by sunlight slanting through the windows of the convent’s guest quarters.  It was a disorienting few minutes before he remembered where he was and why, and a few longer before he realized how long he’d slept.  Morning was well underway and the nuns must have finished their breakfast some time ago.

 

He checked first to make sure the Gospels were safe and in his possession.  The book was back in his satchel. He took a relieved breath and chastised himself for being so careless; that book could be dangerous and it was irresponsible of him to have been so unguarded.  Still; evidently he’d needed sleep more than he’d thought. Yesterday had been wonderful, finding people in whom they could confide and who understood how real and important this journey was; but it had been...difficult, as well.  He put the thought of the dark angel’s lightless eyes firmly out of his mind and made himself presentable.

 

The nuns had been kind enough to leave them some of the convent’s breakfast fare.  It was cold, but filling. There were two plates laid side by side on one of the tables in the refectory; Finn suspected the efficient hand of Sister Mary Cataline at work.  He was just sitting down to eat when Rey came into the room and joined him at the table. She was making short work of her own meal; he knew she still wasn’t used to having enough to eat her fill, and he snuck some of his own food onto her plate when she went to go and fill her cup from the nearby pitcher of water.  

 

Finished, she leaned her elbows on the table and looked at him.  “What’s next? What do we do today?” Her brow furrowed with concern and she laid a hand on his arm.  “Are you all right? I was worried about you.”

 

Her eyes were searching, and he thought perhaps threatening tears.  He didn’t want to worry her. She had enough worry behind and ahead of her already.  He suddenly noticed she was wearing the sword, sheathed and belted about her waist.

 

“I’m well.”  He smiled at her.  “Today, I think, we’ll rest.  I was, we were, very tired, but I thought I heard the Mother Abbess say she had more to show us and to tell us today.  And we can go to check on our friend Thomas and see how he fares.”

 

Rey grinned at him.  That was better. “You just want to go and borrow her medical texts, and discuss all sorts of obscure names for muscle and bone.  Just try to remember to talk to Snap while you’re cataloguing his interesting collection of injuries.”

 

He gave her an exaggerated look of affront, then grinned back at her.  “All right, guilty. But I haven’t forgotten that he’s a man as well as a broken leg and a dislocated hip.  Shall we?”

 

…

 

They could hear Snap before they saw him.  “You don’t understand. I climb rooftops for a _living_ .  I have to have full use of both my legs; how else am I going to get the weathercocks on top of the churches after I make them?  Are you saying I’m going to have trouble the rest of my _life_?”

 

They entered the infirmary as Sister Mary Breha began to answer.  She spared them a glance and turned back to her patient, sitting propped up in the cot.  “I believe you will scramble over roof-peaks again, Master Wexley. You may find that you limp a bit, or that you have some pain when it rains.  These are not uncommon after such an injury. But we’ll work to make sure that both your legs serve you as you need them.” She paused, considering, then reached to raise the hem of her habit.  

 

Snap looked a little alarmed; but understanding dawned on all of them as they saw the long, raised, twisting scar that ran from under her sandal to disappear back under her habit toward her knee.  

 

“Our scars, and the other remnants of our pain; they make us who we are.  They tell us that we survived, that we healed and grew strong again. This?”  She gestured at the old injury. “A fall, when I was young; still a girl, really.  It was thought I might not survive, or might never walk again if I did. But I survived my pain; and it was the hard work needed to teach myself how I was different and the same, afterwards, that taught me how I was meant to best serve God.”  

 

She smiled.  “I entered the convent and began studying the healing arts; and it wasn’t long before I had the chance to help another; a Hospitaller here by chance, who thought he might never have proper use of his hand again after it was nearly lost to a sword, far off in Alexandria.  So trust me when I say that I can help; that Heaven sends us where we should be when our need and others’ is greatest, there to discover exactly how strong we are.”

 

Finn and Rey looked at each other.  They already knew the truth of what Sister Mary Breha had said.  And both had a feeling they would know it better before their journey ended.  Snap bowed his head, moved; then straightened his shoulders and nodded. “Right.  Hard work it is.” He looked at Finn and Rey and broke into a smile. “I’d better be a terrible patient; then the sister here will want to get rid of me sooner.  I’ll be recovered in no time.” He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the sword. “That’s new. Have you decided to go off to war, Reymund?”

 

Rey wasn’t sure what to say.  She explained as best she could.  “This? The Mother Abbess told us it was left here in her care.  We have business in England after we reach Compostela, and she thought we might be best suited to bring the blade back where it belongs.”  That was the truth, she thought.

 

Snap looked a little sad.  “England, eh? I wish I could go with you; I miss it sometimes.  Can I see the sword? It looks well made, from the hilt.” Rey drew the blade and handed it to him.  “Yes. It’s a very nice piece of work. He ran his hands over the hilt. “I could swear I’ve seen this design before; the two suns, and the blue.”  

 

His eyes were suddenly far away.  “I worked all over England in my journeyman years; there was an estate that I think had banners like this.  I shared the forge with their smith while I was working on the cock for their manor house; friendly place, very good smith, if I’m remembering right.  I wish I could recall where exactly it was, but it was a really long time ago.” He shook himself out of his reverie and handed the sword back to Rey.  “You’ll like England. There are good people there, always ready to help when you need a hand. Maybe I’ll head there again after Sister Mary Breha’s done molding me back into shape.”  He grinned at the sister, who only shook her head and smiled with admirable restraint.

 

…

 

Finn and Rey were walking back from the infirmary, each of them with an armful of Sister Mary Breha’s medical texts and notes, when Sister Mary Cataline let them know the abbess would like to see them in the abbey’s back garden.  They were confused, but agreed as soon as they’d put the books away in Finn’s room in the guest quarters. When they arrived, they found Sister Mary Linnet and the abbess both standing by a pine tree; Rey recognized it as the same variety of pine that had fed them both on Gibraltar.  She looked over at Finn and saw him smiling as he realized the same.

 

Bastian was tethered in a currently unused garden plot nearby, happily cropping the weeds.  Rey was glad someone had thought to let him out in the grass for a while; he didn’t like to be cooped up for too long, but she’d just been so tired. She was amused to notice that little sparrows were swooping down onto him and arrowing back up into the air with what looked like some of the loose hairs from his shaggy coat.

 

Sister Mary Linnet noticed the direction of her gaze.  “One of the other sisters brought him out here when she noticed he’d been gnawing on the door of his stall.”  They watched as he bent his long neck over the fence into the next plot and neatly stole some of its contents, grinding it up happily with a totally innocent air.  “Was he just extra hungry after your long trip, do you think, or is he normally so...chewy?”

 

Rey giggled, and explained that Bastian would chew on anything, anywhere, and that it was usually best to keep your fingers away from his mouth.  Linnet managed to look both alarmed and amused.

 

Mother Mary Mazarine cleared her throat for attention and glanced up into the branches of the pine tree with some fondness.  “This is the reason I brought you out to the garden. When those two long-ago pilgrims came to us, so weary of the world and what they’d seen, we brought them here to be part of something new, to help life reach out and lean toward the light.  We set them to planting this very tree. When you leave us, which I think you must soon do, we’d like you to take something with you and leave something behind.” She nodded to Sister Mary Linnet.

 

The younger nun picked one of the pinecones from the tree and handed it to Finn.  “These seeds are for you to take with you, to plant when you’ve done what you were meant to do; to mark the beginning of something new.”  She handed Rey a shovel and a twist of cloth, which when opened revealed a few pine nuts. “These we found along with a few other things in the pocket you’d sewn into your shirt when we took it to clean it; and we hope they’ll remind you to think of life, and growth, no matter how dark your path may seem…” she grinned at Rey, “...and even on the Coast of Death.  You can plant some of them here, and they’ll be your part of our story; and the rest you can take with the ones from our tree, so that we can be part of yours.” She lowered her head, tears on her lashes, and went back to stand beside the abbess.

 

Rey stood for a moment, processing the emotions of the last few minutes; then she handed the packet of seeds to Finn and went to work with the shovel.  They took turns digging; while Finn was taking his turn, Rey could see Sister Mary Linnet pulling the kitchen garden vegetables and feeding them to Bastian, along with some seeds for the sparrows.  Mother Mary Mazarine had clearly noticed this, and just as clearly wasn’t concerned in the least. She smiled indulgently, and even walked over to give Bastian a few scratches herself.

 

Soon enough they’d finished, and Finn and Rey took half the seeds from their stay on Gibraltar and planted them next to the pilgrims’ tree.  Rey wasn’t even sure why she’d saved them. When they’d finished, they stood leaning on the trunk of the stone pine to rest and drink the water the sisters had brought them.  They looked out beyond the convent’s gardens and thought about the trip ahead of them.

 

…

 

Luke pressed a hand to the small of his back.  He might have overdone his devotions, both the days of prayer prostrate on the altar and his nights with the lash. He sat down in his office chair to rest; he had a little time before he needed to walk through the abbey to make sure all was as it should be, and before the next round of prayers.  Surely there were some papers he could review, just to be off his feet for a few minutes. He’d hardly had time to complete that thought when he was asleep, and feeling an entirely different set of aches.

 

…

 

This pilgrimage was madness.  He’d already walked so long, and here he’d taken an extra day’s walk to visit a convent that wasn’t even on his part of the Road.  He’d gone just because one of the other pilgrims had mentioned that their infirmarian’s apprentice seemed to be able to work miracles with injuries like his, despite her young age.  That didn’t bother Luke; he’d dealt for the past few years with those who thought he’d been too young to go off to war. Even now, at the end of hard service, he was barely out of his teens; but he knew the business of fighting and knew he didn’t want any further part of the conflict in Alexandria.  

 

And she’d been worth the walk.  Sister Mary Breha had encouraged him, worked with him, and, when necessary, argued with him until he kept going.  He could already feel the improvement in his hand. When he’d arrived he’d thought he still might lose the hand after all; not to the sword of an Alexandrian, but to the scar that threatened to twist his wrist and fingers back on themselves and keep him from using it at all.

 

And for what?  He’d joined the Crusade full of fire, ready to fight on the side of God; but the Cypriots weren’t there for God’s sake.  King Peter hadn’t wanted to bring the word of God to foreign lands, and he hadn’t been afraid of an attack on his own by the Mamluk Sultan, not really; he’d wanted a foothold to drive further into Egypt, strip it of its riches, and take advantage of its position for trade.

 

When Luke had gleaned this from the talk amongst the other men, it had sickened him.  He’d been fighting these men; good men or bad, who knew, but men with souls just like his own.  He’d been _killing_ them; without speaking to them, without any opportunity for them to come to know God on their own, and all so the King of Cyprus could have more gold.  He’d been about to leave the false Crusade for good, when a sword in the hands of someone probably not unlike himself had come down on his shield hand and his military career had ended, awash in his own blood.

 

He shook his head.  That was over now. He’d made so much progress. He probably could go back to soldiering, if he wished; but he no longer trusted the motives behind kings and Crusades as he once had.  He no longer wished to kill someone whose only crime was being different than himself. He needed to find a new way to serve God.

 

Luke set down the cup of water and turned back to the task at hand.  The Mother Abbess here (she was young for the position, he thought) had set him to planting a tree, there in the convent garden.  Here in Spain’s summer it was almost like being in the hot, dusty lands he’d just left.

 

He didn’t know what she was trying to teach them, Luke and the woman standing next to him.  Shara Bey Dumont seemed to be even more confused about why they were here than he was. She was the first person he’d seen when he wandered from the monastery’s grounds into the convent’s gardens by mistake.  She’d been enjoying the scent of the roses they grew alongside the more practical foodstuffs; and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

 

Small good that would do him; Shara was utterly devoted to the husband she’d left behind at home.  Luke already knew his name; Crecerelle Dumont, possibly the most fanciful moniker he’d ever heard. He’d been wounded fighting in the never-ending conflicts between England and France; something Shara, born in Bohemia, found hard to understand.  Ques, as she called him, had come home broken in body and spirit, and Shara hoped for a child to bring joy back into their lives.

 

He saw her, too, pressing a hand into the small of her back, and hurried over to take the shovel from her in turn.  She gave him a grateful smile and took the cup of water from his hand. He could feel himself blushing, and quickly turned back to the work.  His hand and wrist throbbed and ached; but it was a good pain, the kind that told him his body had begun to obey him again. Perhaps he would be able to make something useful out of his life and serve God after all.  Maybe he should take orders, and help bring others to love and serve God; children, even, like the one he didn’t doubt for a moment Shara would have. Surely God would reward strength and devotion like hers.

 

“It’s time, I think.  The hole is big enough isn’t it?.”  Shara turned to Luke with a questioning look.  He nodded, and stepped forward with the seeds the abbess had given them.  “Should we...together, I suppose?” She gestured toward the hole they’d been digging together and smiled at him again.  “I still don’t know why we’re doing this.” Even her puzzled frown was enough to make his heart beat faster. That, and the touch of her hand as he poured half the seeds into her palm.

 

“Together. Yes.  I think...I think she wants us to start something new, so we know that we can.  So we know that new things and new life are a possibility. Then each of us, when we return, can be ready for new life to begin.  You and your husband beginning your new time together now that he’s home, with perhaps another new life to join you, and I…” He crouched down beside her as they each dropped their seeds into the soil.  He was suddenly sure. “I’m going to join an abbey back at home, where I can teach boys like I was how to serve God in a peaceful way, not with war and death, but with beauty and devotion.”

 

Shara looked at him with a tearful smile.  “How wonderful, the way you understand that.  I’m so glad to have met you. It’s like poetry, the way you speak.  I’m perhaps a bit overfond of poetry, Ques says. I wonder…”, she stepped back away from the seeds they’d just planted and beckoned to him to join her, “what this tree will look like when you and I are old, and you are the venerable leader of your abbey and I am a grandmother with little ones at my knee.”  He tried to picture the future that now seemed possible for each of them, standing there side by side; but he found his eyes irresistibly drawn to the sheen of her raven-dark hair.

 

…

 

Ben paused on his way down the corridor.  “Beautiful…”, he heard as he passed his uncle’s open office door.  He peered cautiously into the room. Abbot Luke was asleep at his desk, a smile on his bearded face that Ben could only describe as _bashful_.  He flexed one of his hands in his sleep as though it hurt him; Ben knew the cold was sometimes unkind to the scar he carried, from the dreadful wound he’d taken in his youth.  Oddly touched, he went to the chest on the opposite side of the office, took out the blanket he knew would be stored within, and laid it over his uncle’s sleeping form. Then he stepped as quietly as he could out of the room and closed the door.

 

…

 

Rey and Finn spent the rest of the day relaxing; they thought they might not have much chance for rest as they got closer to the battle they would eventually face.  Between them, the sisters and Rey decided now was the time for her to become _Brother_ Reymund; this would make her partnership with Finn easier to understand.  It might help when they travelled through England, and it would definitely be important when they needed to gain entrance to Saint Augustine’s.

 

Toward that end, Finn sat at the refectory table and brought out his scribe’s tools.  They would need to alter the letter from his home at Debre Damo again. Using the edge of his knife, he carefully scraped away the permission for pilgrimage (their presence this far along the Road and the papers they’d been given in Seville established this well enough), and changed it to read that he’d been sent to study with the lead scribe at Saint Augustine’s (he hoped their mysterious author _was_ the lead scribe, but either way they knew he was there).  He tested the new ink on a scrap of parchment similar to that of the letter, and practiced his letter forms, to make sure both the ink and the writing was as close to the original as possible.  Sister Mary Cataline clucked a bit in disapproval; she did not approve of the alteration of official communications, but she grudgingly conceded the necessity in this case. The abbess added a letter of her own.

 

Rey went with Finn that evening when he returned the infirmarian’s books.  They said goodbye to Snap, who was almost asleep already, drained from the exercises Sister Mary Breha had begun giving him, and a bit muddled from the poppy syrup.  Rey was sad to be leaving another friend. She wondered if she would ever find a true home, a place where she would be known and loved and where she and the people who lived there could care for each other in turn.  The Mother Abbess had said they’d both find their true home when they had done what was needed. That sounded lovely, but awfully far away.

 

Rey took another bath, feeling sinful as she reveled in the sheer enjoyment of being clean.  She mended their things while Finn worked on the letter. She saw as she collected the clothing they’d worn on the way here that his shirt, beautifully worked though it was with embroidery, was stained with blood across the front.  The sisters hadn’t been able to get that out; which was hardly surprising, since Rey knew it had been there since he started his journey to meet her.

 

She considered the problem, then looked at the top part of the clothing he’d worn, the sort of scarf-like robes that sat atop the trousers and shirt.  Rey blushed a little as she remembered how he’d draped them over her shoulders, there in their cave on Gibraltar, and how comforting his warmth had been.  It had been wonderful to know that how she felt was important to someone else.

 

She spread the cloth out on the table and measured with her hands, then cut just enough to replace the stained part of the shirt.  After that, it was just a matter of removing the darkened cloth and replacing it with the “patch” in a way that didn’t show. She neatened the edges of both places that she’d cut.  Rey frowned thoughtfully as she turned the stained cloth over in her hands. This was a part of Finn’s history, though it was a painful one. It wasn’t her place to discard it; best he decide what to do.  She placed the scrap of cloth in his satchel where it lay with the things they were gathering for their departure and added the mended clothing.

 

After the evening meal, they both slept, enjoying the peaceful feeling here at the convent for the last time.  Rey’s sleep was dreamless, which was a relief for now; though she wondered what was happening to their scribe.

 

In the morning, the sisters gathered to wish them well and send them on their way.  Bastian and Octavius were retrieved from the stable, where little Octavius had evidently been terrorizing the rodent population.  They loaded their things in the cart and hitched Bastian to it. Rey had discovered a hidden storage space under one of the cart’s boards.  She wondered why it was there until she saw the cloth bag of coins in the corner of the space. Bless Dorothea’s devious heart. She hadn’t even bothered to take the money with her.   It was entirely large enough to hold the sword, which would save them a lot of explanation.

 

Mother Mary Mazarine led the sisters in a prayer for travelers as they made to go.  There were tears on both sides; Rey had felt at home here, but knew she couldn’t have stayed.  She needed to _**do**_ and _**fight**_ and _**feel**_ in ways this peaceful place would not have allowed. Sister Mary Cataline busied herself making sure their paperwork was all immaculately in order and their things were packed with the maximum possible efficiency.  Sister Mary Breha had sent some of the soothing herbs for the drink she’d made, to help them when things were hard.

 

And Sister Mary Linnet darted out from the group of sisters at the last minute and hugged Rey and Finn both, in a dual embrace that raised scandalized murmurs from the other sisters.  She muttered a muffled farewell into Rey’s hair, then turned and fled inside the convent, no doubt to the ordered comfort of her beloved archives. Bemused, they exchanged a final “God keep you” with the remaining sisters and were on their way to Compostela and beyond.

 

…

 

“Where the birds build their nests, and the stork, whose home is the fir trees.”  Ben had decided to go back and work on the books of the Old Testament for a time; he’d had enough of the Gospels for now.  He was working on Psalms when he felt the urge to sketch in the space he’d made. This drawing seemed to take longer than some of the others, and it was harder somehow.  He felt joyful and sad, both, when he’d finished it.

 

There on the parchment he’d drawn most of a building in the background of the piece; that was unusual.  It looked not unlike his own abbey, though he knew it wasn’t; the light and the color of the walls were different.  In front of the building grew a pine tree; it reminded him of the boughs he’d drawn for comfort when his angel cried.  Standing on either side of the tree, resting a hand each on its trunk, were a man and a woman. They stood, faces turned away from him to gaze at the summer grass beyond the building.  They weren’t his warrior and angel, though; he knew this.

 

The man was slight, with fair hair, and the woman’s hair cascaded in dark waves down her back. Leaning against the nearest part of the tree’s trunk was a shovel.  And everywhere in the picture, swooping down among the needles of the pine and nesting in its branches, were birds. Were those nests made of... fur? They were little brown sparrows, he knew, with markings around their eyes that made them look as though they were wearing tiny spectacles.  

 

He laughed at the idea of bespectacled birds.  His senses were filled, as he looked at what he’d drawn, with the sharp smell of pine.  Ben strode over to the window of the scriptorium and cocked his head as the other brothers gave him curious looks, but it seemed that the birdsong that filled the room was only for his ears.  Perhaps he’d have a walk outside today and listen to the birds in the abbey’s garden. It was good to remember God’s creations, and to take time to appreciate all the beauty out there in the world.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really was a misguided attempt to send a "Crusade" against the Mamluk Sultanate by Peter I of Cyprus in 1365 or so. It was all about the money. 
> 
> We are all about birds and wings in this fic, in case you couldn't tell. Crecerelle (French for 'kestrel') "Ques" Dumont was injured fighting in the Hundred Years' War, which eventually involved even far-off rulers like those in Bohemia. 
> 
> Sister Mary Linnet gets her name from the common linnet, a little bird found throughout Europe, western Asia, and north Africa. Our Sister Mary Linnet was born in Scotland and traveled all over before finding her home at the abbey with Mother Mazarine and the other sisters.
> 
> Sister Mary Breha would know all about recovering and thriving after an early disaster, and proudly wearing the proof of her survival, as well as the desire to love and care for those not of her own blood. Her charges are her children and she loves them as such.
> 
> Sister Mary Cataline has an enormous respect for communications and a knack for making sure everyone knows exactly where to go and what to do; and she's more inclined to participate in something unorthodox than one might initially believe.
> 
> Thanks to @leoba for the particulars of Finn's forgery skills, and @flypaper-brain for always keeping it Star Wars. And to both of them for giving exactly the kind of encouragement and embellishment that makes you want to keep going.


	9. Auditio et Adspectus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearing and Vision: In which Luke loses every bit of his sh*t. In which Ben is afraid he's losing his mind. In which Brothers Finn and Reymund reach Compostela, and in which despair and hope are side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is good news and bad news: Good news, more Ben. Bad news, we won't take sail for England until the next chapter. Good news: Our Finn and Rey are here with Ben and for him in a more real and solid way the closer they get to Canterbury. Bad news: The dark night of the soul must, perforce, be dark; a.k.a, Ben spends some time on the pain train. 
> 
> There are hands and names and not alone and more Star Wars (because @flypaper-brain). There are canon characters, sprinkled and disguised. There is Luke being Luke; earnest and really meaning the best and highly flawed and sometimes completely an idiot. There are words and wordplay and symbolism and visions (because @LoveThemFiercely, me!). There are all sorts of things medieval and monastic and Finn delighting in things, (because @leoba).

There would be no sleep. Luke knew this. He thought he’d finally chased away the ghost of temptation, but there would be no rest this night. Who would have thought that the desires of his long-ago youth would still have so sharp a sting? He winced as the last word came to mind. Best to find some other way to occupy his mind and salve his soul before the infirmarian had to be involved. That worthy soul was not overly fond of Luke’s attempts to keep himself on the narrow path through mortification. What Brother Lorcan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He gave up on even the semblance of rest and went to wander the halls of the abbey. Even between times of prayer, his presence would raise no eyebrows; all the brothers here knew his habit of constantly monitoring to make sure all was as it should be. And for the most part, it was. He found a young novice (Luke thought his name was Timothy) drowsing in an out-of-the-way storeroom in hopes he could not be located for the next canonical hour. The boy was quickly disabused of this notion and sent to the novice master, Brother Peter, for extra prayer so that he would understand its importance. And after, to sweep in the stables so he would understand the importance of obedience and hard work.

The scriptorium was empty at this hour, of course; most scribes preferred not to work in the darkness before dawn and they did have to sleep at some point. Though he had occasionally found Brother Ben here at the oddest hours. Thinking about his nephew, Luke walked to the desk where Ben was accustomed to work and idly leafed through the most recently completed pages. He’d reached the last illustration when he could feel all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at once. The candle he held only made the painting flicker, lending it a luminous quality that seemed to bring it to life.

There was the place, the time...and the tree; here grown to maturity, but he knew it nonetheless. He could smell the turned soil, feel the ache and press of the shovel’s handle against his hand. The scar at his wrist throbbed suddenly, as though it were last month’s wound instead of forty years gone. There was the convent writ small, but looming large in his memory. He could see the fairness of his own hair; not grizzled and gray with age as it now was, but that indeterminate, sandy color it had once been.

And there, his heart sang and lamented to see, was the woman. Shara Bey Dumont. She was facing away from him toward something else, as she always had been, but he knew her. His memory knew every dark, silken wave of her hair. It hadn’t been enough for her to come into his dreams, his mind’s solace and his soul’s temptation. Now she was in front of him in the pages of his nephew’s work.

At that thought, Luke stood stock-still, the page still grasped in one hand. Ice trickled slowly down his spine. When he’d seen the scallop shells of Compostela de Santiago, he’d been puzzled and intrigued. But this...how could Ben know this, SEE this? It was as though there had been an intrusion in Luke’s own mind. Nothing in this world could have brought these images onto his nephew’s page. They’d been sent as temptation and reminder of his own weakness, the failure in him as he still, after all these years, longed for something that could never have been. And they’d come to him through Ben.

Luke didn’t realize he was moving until he heard the scriptorium door creak and thump closed behind him. He walked quickly, passing through the familiar building without conscious thought or the need to see anything outside his mind’s eye. Before long he’d reached the small cell set close beside his own. He could hear the muttered prayers of Ben’s often restless nights. The world seemed tinged with color as fear and resentment and anger and yes, even green envy built up inside his heart.

The door of Ben’s cell hit the abbey’s wall as Luke threw it open and strode inside. He had a moment to see the startled face of his nephew, eyes already widening with alarm, and then he was grabbing the front of Ben’s cowl and pulling him to his feet. “How did you know? Where did you get that last painting? HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY SEE?”

Ben’s hands were held wide apart in front of him in a gesture of warding and conciliation. “I...I don’t understand, Uncle. I’ve always had pictures, images in my heart and mind. I don’t know what you mean.”

Luke’s anger and outrage; and yes, his fear, were a conflagration, overwhelming his reason and the years of obeying God’s law. He SHOOK Ben; shook him by the fistful of cowl like a terrier with a rat, shook his unprotesting form until his teeth rattled. “WHY ARE YOU TORMENTING ME? Who told you about her? How did you know about us, about the tree? WHERE DID YOU GAIN THIS KNOWLEDGE?”

…

Now Ben was angry. He’d been startled, frightened, and confused by turns when he’d seen Uncle Luke storm into his cell and felt himself being dragged to his feet. He didn’t understand the questions at first; he still didn’t, really, but he understood now that Abbot Luke wanted to know where he was getting the drawings that kept landing in his great work. They seemed to come from more than one source now, and he never knew who or what would drop images into his mind.  He wasn’t about to tell his uncle, who’d been watching him like a hawk since he was born for signs of sin, that he thought he was being pursued by a demon; but the truth was…”I don’t KNOW why I see things the way I do. I don’t KNOW how I get the pictures and why they come to me.”

There were surely pictures coming to him now. Almost too fast to register in his mind, his own or the thoughts of another, who knew? He thought about the floor opening and swallowing him whole, to hide him and send him to the punishment he no doubt deserved. He pictured the icy terror he felt just now and how it might freeze them both whole where they stood; and he thought about what it would be like if he could bring the building down on both their heads; imagining the ceiling collapsing, the whole abbey coming down on top of them, to hide his fear and shame under an avalanche of stone.

Ben raised his hand as if to strike the abbot; he was unpleasantly thrilled by the flash of fear in the smaller man’s angry eyes. Luke flinched slightly, but he did not retreat. “What have you been doing? What is it about you, that these things should come to you? TELL me, boy!”

He had a fleeting thought that he should destroy the manuscript; tear his work to pieces or burn it in purifying flame. But it was meant to be his hope of redemption, apology and plea to Heaven for his great immutable mistake. And he wasn’t sure the demon would let him. He could think still; could consider these things, somewhere inside. But overlaid atop his thoughts, blinding his reason, was now pure unadulterated fury. “I have done nothing WRONG! I have only ever tried to make my work _perfect_ , for the glory of God! Why are you _persecuting_ me?!  WHY?!!”

Ben reached for the nearest object that wasn’t his uncle; his fingers found the book he’d been reading, there on his table; teeth bared, he found himself throwing the volume with all his strength. It collided with the cup on the table as it flew, and hit the wall with a crash of disintegrating pottery and the terrible, fractured sound of its boards breaking. He could see, out of the corner of his rage-misted vision, a scrap of parchment fall out of the pages of the book and onto the floor. He knew what it was. It was the portrait he’d drawn, of his father smiling while surrounded by the flames that had consumed him. He felt the hatred and anger of the last few moments draining out of him like water.

The sounds seemed to bring Luke back to himself. If he noticed the drawing, there on the floor next to the pieces of the cup and the broken book, he did not acknowledge it. The anger was still in his eyes, but he let go of Ben and stepped back a pace or two. He seemed almost to grow smaller as he did, as though he were collapsing back into himself. His voice was icy when he spoke next, but Ben thought he heard a touch of regret.

“Remember the Rule and your place at this abbey, Brother Benedictus. It seems you need time to consider where you should find your inspiration”, he looked across to the damaged volume, “and the respect with which you treat your vocation. This is a house of God and not meant for the indulgence of your personal whims, or your temper. To that end, you shall be confined to your cell until otherwise informed, your work suspended; time to be spent in prayer and fasting and the consideration of the obedience you owe; to me and to God.” He signed a sketchy, and shaky, cross toward Ben. “I suggest you use this time well, in Pater Nosters on your knees and a hard look at your soul.” Abbot Luke turned on his heel and left the room. Ben could hear a key turn in the lock after the door closed.

Ben sank to his knees on the floor of his cell. He was filled with horror at the feelings and actions of the last few minutes. How could he think such things? How could he raise his hand to his elder, his uncle, his ABBOT, who had charge of his soul? He thought he was beginning to understand why the demon had come to him; because he had thoughts like this in his heart. He could never tell Luke about the demon. It would mean the end of all his work, his freedom to try to create something glorious; and he wasn’t entirely sure that he could physically speak the words.

…

Luke castigated himself for a hypocrite as he retreated to his own rooms. Everything he’d said to his nephew could equally be applied to himself. He’d let his anger, his fear, and his weakness control him. Shame surged through him at the thought of what he’d done. He’d laid hands on the boy in anger; his own nephew, his sister’s only son. Ben needed help; prayer and gentle guidance and care, not accusations and anger and _violence_. Luke bowed his head, filled with self-accusation. He’d laid down his sword so long ago; vowed never again to do harm to another even in the name of God. And he’d failed; spurred and tempted by the memory of that very same day, he'd shown his weakness.

Damn Brother Lorcan and his talk of moderation in all things. There was only one way to scourge the darkness out of his soul. The path to the light always came with pain.

…

Ben was still kneeling, eyes closed, too exhausted to move, when he heard from the next room the sound of his uncle taking up the lash. Scalding tears, hot with shame and the fear he still felt, leaked from under his lashes as he listened. He realized that Abbot Luke was speaking as the smack of his flagellum continued. “Are You testing me? Have I failed You in some way? Of course I have. His soul is in my care, and in peril. But how can I keep his soul safe for You if I cannot even resist the temptations of my own? I am unworthy of my office, of Your trust in me.”

There in the chill of his cell, Ben was beginning to think his cause must be lost. How could it be possible that he might be redeemed, when the darkness at his core was enough to make Heaven’s angels weep and his uncle, who’d never once doubted what he was put on the earth to do, wonder after so long about his vocation?

The time that followed seemed an eternity. Day and night were indistinguishable; Ben tried to pray as he’d been instructed, but the words seemed hollow. “Our Father”...he had no father. “Who Art in Heaven”...he certainly hoped so. He was increasingly uncertain of getting there to see him again. “...Give us this day our daily bread…” It was the only way he really had to mark the time; the bread and water he was allowed. He _tried_ to remember the words as he knew they were intended. …”And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” He prayed for himself and for Luke; they both had their failings. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” He’d never needed such a thing more than he did now.

 

Some of the brothers came to him, to pray alongside him outside his door; he thought he heard brothers Daniel and Radbod, there at Nones when they should be in the chapel with the others. The cellarer, Brother Robert, must have tried to sneak him some heartier food; he heard Brother Peter chastising him, there in the hall outside. And Brother Dismus, their guest master, merely sat by the door in an attempt to keep him company; Ben had no idea he was there until he heard the whisper: “Courage, the Lord is with you.”

This was followed by a few muffled profanities as Brothers Paul and Patrick, who shared the job of prior at the abbey, arrived; Brother Dismus beat a hasty retreat from their lectures about the Rule. Ben knew none of this was permitted; he was touched by the kind intent, but knew he wasn’t worth the trouble. They could come and go, and their words and actions were well meant; but he was beginning to lose the conflict inside himself. His uncle’s loss of faith in Ben had dealt the final blow.

Ben knew, in his more rational moments, that it was meant as purification as well as penance; that the prayer and fasting were meant to help his soul, even if at the expense of his body. And, he thought darkly, possibly his mind. He’d spent so long resisting the impulses and the images that beat their dark wings against his thoughts. Every day was a struggle to make the work as it should be, to reach for the light of Heaven. And now Ben was repaid with suspicion and scrutiny, and with the terrible fear that his dark secret might become known. So be it. If he was to be suspected, accused, _punished_ when all he’d done was try his best to resist the intruder, then perhaps he should simply stop. Stop fighting the impulses, the images...and the demon itself.

…

Luke conceded earlier than he’d planned that it would be permissible for Brother Benedictus to go back to his work. Some of the other brothers had approached him; a few of them, he knew, had a soft spot for Ben and were inclined to occasional and casual disobedience; but even the brothers who were sticklers for the Rule were reminding him that Saint Benedict had founded his order on community; he believed that a solitary life could put one in spiritual danger.

Brother Robert pointed out that the Rule said nothing about fasting except when the holy days required it. Luke felt shame, again; had he really grown so rigid and joyless in his age that he’d forgotten why he chose this Order? He’d chosen it for its tolerance and its sense that the brothers were just that; brothers, a family, all connected. Perhaps it was time to start acting like a Benedictine again and help Ben feel connected before, in trying to fit him to the proper path, Luke bent his nephew’s spirit until it broke.

Ben went back to the work willingly enough; but Luke noticed that he was no longer humming or smiling while he worked. He hoped he hadn’t come to that realization too late. It was hubris to be too enamored of your own talent; but Luke hadn’t mean to take away his joy in it. There was no point in devoting yourself to God if you couldn’t do it with joy.

...

When permitted, Ben went back to working on his manuscript; the work progressed as it should. It was easier, if he wasn’t constantly struggling. The presence of the others in the scriptorium was some small comfort. He just let the images come if they would; he thought there were actually fewer of them for now, as if the demon was biding its time, wondering where all his fight and anger had gone. He was permitted to return to meals as usual; but Ben found that he hadn’t much appetite for food or prayer.

He had returned to his cell after manuscript work and a mostly untouched meal when he realized that the broken cup and damaged book were still there, just as he’d left them. He thought he might as well make his cell neat and orderly, even if his mind couldn’t be. His thoughts went in circles; he could take up fighting the demon, but fighting it was how he’d got in this mess, wasn’t it? He felt a little dizzy; maybe he should try more of the things Brother Robert and the abbey’s cook kept trying to tempt him to eat.

His head was spinning as he went mechanically about the business of cleaning up the mess he’d made. Ben hardly noticed as he picked up the shards of his water cup that one of them had cut him. He only registered the pain when he reached out for the parchment scrap and saw that the fire around his father’s face was reddened with the falling drops of his blood.

And suddenly he was angry again. Nothing on this earth or out of it should be able to keep him from his expiation; from seeing his father and someday all those he loved in joy again in Heaven. He could hear the roar of flames in his mind, as though the demon had heard him and knew of his resolve.

But he couldn’t fight alone. With that thought, he turned over the parchment to see what he’d drawn on the reverse; his warrior and angel, who’d come to him when all seemed darkest. Ben hugged the parchment to himself and began once again to pray. For no reason that he could understand, instead of the Pater Noster that had brought him no hope, this night he chose the Ave Maria. She would pray for the sinners, after all; and that was what he needed.

…

Maybe the extra bath at the convent had been a good thing, Rey thought. She wondered how long it would be before she could be really _clean_ again. The six days of road dust and sweat they’d gathered along the way from Granja de Moreruela to Santiago de Compostela had sadly undone most of that refreshing feeling, and Brother Reymund, as she must now be, didn’t dare bathe in any facility available to a monk. She supposed it was some consolation that in solidarity Finn was as grimy as she was.

They’d found pilgrim lodgings in the city (this had been made easier by their Benedictine cuculae, the robes they wore). Bastian was comfortably settled, and the brother in charge of the stables at the Monastery of San Martiño Pinario had welcomed the addition of Octavius once Brothers Finn and Reymund had explained his penchant for frightening vermin. Assured of the welfare of their companions, they set off for the great cathedral. Prayer for the souls of Brother Novenario and the still nameless scribe they sought was, after all, their recorded reason for pilgrimage.

The cathedral was like nothing Rey had ever seen. Finn seemed equally stunned. For the first part of their time there, they simply walked around the cathedral and marveled at its soaring beauty. Between the two towers at the west entrance they could see the facade devoted to the transfiguration of Christ, and beyond that as they drew closer, the great gate they’d been told was called the Portico da Gloria, the Portal of Glory.

Its three arches were covered in carved stone images. Finn pointed out the depictions as they stood taking in the sight. “On the left, the Old Testament; what has gone before. In the center, the Crucifixion. See the Evangelists surrounding Christ? There is our Saint Luke and his symbol, the ox. And there…” They both found themselves drawn to the arch on the right. No explanation was needed here. Rey could see the demons on the right side of the arch, dragging down the lost souls on their way to Hell. And on the left, angels carrying redeemed souls toward their hope of Heaven. They both knew then that to pray for the souls of those lost and not yet found, they would enter by walking a fine line between Heaven and Hell.

…

Finn felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Saint James, there in the center tympanum, eyed them watchfully, the scroll he bore marked with the words “Misit me dominus.” The Lord sent me. So, it would seem, had they been sent. He looked at the foundations of the pillars; demons arrayed against souls in peril, Hell there on the right side of the arch. He raised his eyes to the left side of the arch, to Heaven, here represented by Christ and his own Michael, warrior and patron of his lost home. This door showed them the way they must go, both here in the light of day and there, in the mists of vision.

They walked into the cathedral, awed by the beauty all around them, reaching toward Heaven. The nave was pierced by a clerestory of round windows, giving light to the wonders so they could be seen. As so many other pilgrims had done before them, they approached the pillar beside the cathedral’s entrance and each laid a hand on the stone worn smooth by others seeking guidance. The great statue of Saint James under its baldachin seemed to gaze at them from across the nave; a kinder, more indulgent look, perhaps, than his image outside had worn. He had, after all, been called to be a fisher of men; to seek them and save them. Finn could see that the cathedral was filled with those fellow pilgrims, here to pray, to ask, to seek hope.

He turned to Rey. “I believe...I _know_ that we should be alone here, as much as we can be, before we consider the soul we mean to save. So. We will walk, and look, and think about those we’ve met along the way. And when it grows dark and there are fewer here, we will find a small chapel where no one has thought to go.” Rey nodded, eyes large with wonder, hardly hearing him as she tried to see everything at once. He smiled. She saw everything, he thought, as though it had just been made for the purpose of delighting her. It was lovely to see, after the distance they’d come.

Months ago, Finn thought, he would have said that he would live and die happy in his work within the confines of Debre Damo, secure in his place and the company of his comrades. And then his world had turned upside down. The journey had been long, to be sure, but a short time nonetheless for so much to change. He’d lost a brother, and a home. He’d met folk of lands he’d only read about, sailed on the sea, fought for his life and the lives of others, and walked distances he could never have imagined. And the things he’d experienced! Finn had learned to love horses (and lose them), wrangled camels, helped the sick and the lame, and discovered that children gave him joy. He’d found unexpected friends in Dorothea, in Snap, in the kind sisters at Santa Maria de Moreruela, even in caravan merchants.

But most importantly, he’d learned of two people he knew had changed his life forever. One of them Finn had yet to meet except in dreams, but he’d become the driving focus for both of them, the thought of his loss unbearable. And then there was Rey. She was possibly the strongest person he had ever known. Arguably Finn’s life had at least prepared him to save souls, though he’d had to leave it to begin; but Rey, with nothing, had forged herself into a true partner in the fight to find and save their third, the man who gave them purpose as he struggled alone. Rey was a constant and wonderful surprise.

With so much to see, the time quickly passed and the cathedral began to empty. As Finn had supposed, no one questioned their continuing presence, with both of them dressed as monks. It occurred to him to wonder why the sisters at the Cistercian Monasterio de Santa Maria de Moreruela had dressed them both in Benedictine black. It was a puzzle, but as Mother Mary Mazarine would no doubt say, she had her reasons.

They found a chapel amongst the many that radiated from the nave and seemed to sprout throughout the cathedral, like flowers after rain. This one, Finn had gleaned from the talk among the other pilgrims and the cathedral’s occupants, was called La Capela de la Virgen de la Soledad. He thought a chapel dedicated to Our Lady of Solitude...of loneliness...might be ideal for their purpose tonight. They waited in the chapel until it was very late into the night and they were sure they were alone. It was possible he was being overly cautious, but Finn had seen and experienced things not of this earth, and if that happened here in this holy place, he thought he’d prefer not to have an audience.

Satisfied that they were alone, he turned to Rey. “Do you know the Ave Maria, in the Latin?” He wanted something they could say together; the Ave was a simple prayer, and it seemed fitting here in the chapel devoted to Our Lady.

She nodded. “I learned to speak it along with the priest, though I didn’t understand the words then. I think I do now. We ask her to pray for sinners, don’t we? I like that. That would mean all of us, after all. Everyone is weak sometimes, and…” she looked up at the image of the Lady…”she seems kind.”

They talked together of all those they’d met, and spoke their names, asking Our Lady to look after them, to be kind to them in their human weakness, to guide them in life and welcome them as a mother should when it came time for them to leave earth and seek Heaven. And then they began to pray.

…

Rey began speaking the words along with Finn. She understood them better now.  
_Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum._ Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.  
_Benedicta tu in mulieribus._ Blessed art thou among women. She thought of the women she’d met along the way, and what a gift and a comfort those friendships had been. ... _et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus_. Rey couldn’t have said why, but as they spoke the word “ _Benedictus_ ”, a shiver ran up her spine, and the hairs on her arms rose. She looked at Finn, to see the same, though both of them continued to pray.

 _Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus_...pray for us sinners. She thought of Finn’s lost brother, a man Finn had loved but that she’d never met. If he’d succeeded in taking the life he’d sought she would never have come to know the man beside her. Surely Brother Novenario needed prayer. God would forgive him his madness; was He not infinitely forgiving? _Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae_. _Amen_. Now and at the hour of our deaths. So be it. Life was precious, the more so since she’d found the souls she thought must be meant to match her own; but if death lay at the end of this road, so be it. She found it strange to be so sure that she was willing to die for a man whose face she’d never seen.

They began again. And at the word “ _Benedictus_ ” she felt, for a moment, as though they were in a smaller, darker room. Her thoughts began to circle with a despair that she knew was not her own. She looked over to Finn again and found that he looked as disoriented as she felt; gooseflesh prickled his forearms and his folded hands trembled. They knelt in the chapel of Our Lady of Solitude and felt themselves drawing nearer to one who waited alone. As one, without a word except the “ _Amen_ ” of the prayer, they reached out to clasp each other’s hands. And as one, their free hands rose, reaching out toward someone they couldn’t yet see, but they knew he was there.

…

Finn found, as they began the Ave Maria a third time, that he could no longer see the beautiful Lady Chapel in which they knelt. Instead, he saw...a cell. A monk’s cell. It was much like his own had been, spare and simple, built from an unfamiliar stone. He looked toward the place where Rey had been kneeling beside him, and found her still there. They were to share this vision, it seemed. Good. They were stronger together. They knew, dimly, that they still knelt together in the Lady Chapel, well-lit, warm, and beautiful; but here and now they could see only the man who knelt before them, his voice a deep rumble as he spoke the words of the same prayer.

He wore the same robe they both did, and the mask that hid his face from their sight. The silver inlay caught the light of the single candle standing on the table. Next to the candle lay a book, its boards broken like the one Finn carried, even now, somewhere back in Santiago’s cathedral. The man, their scribe, the third part of their purpose, held a parchment in his ink-stained hands, which were marked by a lifetime’s use of the quill just as were Finn’s own. As they watched, he stopped praying. Finn could hear the sound of muffled sobs from behind the midnight darkness of the mask. Even in the dim light of a single candle, he could see the image on the parchment where it faced him. He would have known the artist’s style anywhere; he’d brought it with him all the way to home and back. The subject puzzled him. A man’s face, kind and filled with humor, looked out at him with a lopsided smile; but he was surrounded by flames and the edge of the parchment was stained with what Finn thought must be blood. Finn looked up, and he was caught by the eyes he knew so well. Dark, filled with tears, but thankfully filled as well with the light that had been absent when he’d last seen them. They were the eyes, though, of a man who was close to breaking.

…

Finn was with her this time. She was glad of it; she felt steadier and more powerful, somehow, with him at her side. The first thing she saw of their scribe were his hands; large and graceful, they looked strong, but capable of delicate work. She knew they were. She’d seen the fantastical images he’d produced. His hands were stained with ink, mostly black ink, as Finn’s own beautiful hands often were. And she could see a trickle of blood from between his fingers from a cut he didn’t seem to notice. She reached to take one of his hands in her own before she remembered where she really was, far away in our Lady’s chapel across the sea.

She looked upward almost reluctantly and found his eyes. They seemed to look inward; she knew instantly that he couldn’t see them. That was wrong. They were his hope, as she felt he must be theirs; and hope should always be in sight. Those eyes closed as she watched, tears falling to disappear under the black mask.

Rey and Finn spoke at the same time, not the words of the prayer they were saying together, but a plea as they felt his despair. “ _We’re here. We are with you. You are not alone. Don’t give in to it. Don’t give up your fight. We are coming to you. But hear us; you are **not** alone. Fight and wait for us. **Please**._ ” They both reached for him; neither of them could bear the thought that he should feel alone.

…

Ben prayed, calling on Our Lady to intercede for him. He was thinking, too, of his warrior and angel and how much he needed them. And then he heard his name. Two voices, blended together until they were almost one voice; it must be _their_ voices, called him by name. “ _Benedictus_.” Tears filled his eyes at the thought that he was not alone and he sobbed raggedly in relief. He heard his name a second time, and felt a warmth that had no place here in the cool of his cell; warmth and the scent of beeswax candles. Why couldn’t he see them? Was he no longer worthy of the sight?

When he heard his name again, he could _feel_ them, arms around him in comfort and support. Two pairs of arms; one slender, one sturdy, both strong, enclosed him in safety. He could feel their warmth. There in the dimness of his cell in Canterbury, he could hear them tell him to hold onto himself, that they were coming to him, that he shouldn’t despair. After a time, he felt the vision begin to recede. But he was left with the sense of warmth, the feeling of hands atop his own in a brush of farewell and benediction; and the last words he’d heard: “ _You are not alone. Fight and wait for us. Please._ ”

And he would. They would be with him. Soon in truth. Ben crawled into bed, head still spinning. It was time to look after himself, to take up his resistance once again. Was it just the effects of too little food and sleep, and too much despair? He thought not. They had come, as they always did, when he most needed hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shuke pairing that never was, except in Luke's heart. Luke is Shuketh. This confrontation was as necessary as it was difficult. Exploring what Luke or Ben might have been thinking at a time like that was *hard*.
> 
> I didn't have to invent anything mystical for the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. It really is an amazing art and symbolism-filled place. The Chapel of Our Lady of Solitude is where foreign-language Masses are held each day. And there is another chapel called the Capela de Corticela, which is the last remaining piece of the Monastery of San Martiño Pinario, where it used to stand until it was demolished and relocated in the ninth century; except for the chapel, which is the only place at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela where weddings may be performed.
> 
>   
> Back in Chapter Four, Persimonne asked about what type of dog Octavius is. We've decided he's mostly spaniel, with a touch of alaunt, because it's Spain's hawking dog. Here's an illustration - our Octavius would be the one over on the right scratching his ear, but with orange and white markings and, you know, just a touch rounder.


	10. Finis Terre et Initium Maris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End of the Earth and the Beginning of the Sea: In which Finn and Rey reach the end of the earth and find a way to begin something new. In which the brothers and novices alike care for Brother Ben. In which we take ship, meet a very interesting fellow, and mysterious forces show us the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finisterre, or Fisterra, is a mystical site that is believed to have been used for pre-Christian solar worship, possibly by the Artabri Celts of Galicia. At one point, infertile couples would try to conceive at one of many holy stones in the area, and legend says that the wind would cause wild nightmares. The Romans thought it was really the end of the world. I was glad to open with Ben this time, and to see that even while he waits for his warrior and angel, he is not entirely alone.
> 
> Pine trees do grow here and are, as always, extraordinarily useful. Save yourself, find a pine.

Ben could hear the end of the novice master’s lesson as he passed the classroom. “Then I will come down and speak with you there, and I will take of the Spirit who is upon you, and will put Him upon them; and they shall bear the burden of the people with you, so that you will not bear it all alone.” There was a murmur of boyish voices. “Yes, yes, go and eat your breakfast, never mind your education. Stomachs on legs, all of you.” Brother Peter’s voice was kinder than his words would suggest, though.

“...you will not bear it all alone.” He heard the echoes of last night’s...vision? Dream? “ _You are not alone._ ” Ben was suddenly dizzy with relief, or possibly hunger; he wasn’t sure. He leaned against the wall for a moment and closed his eyes.

“Are you all right, Brother Benedictus?” Ben opened his eyes to see a smallish novice lingering after the others had passed, looking up at him with concern. He was very young; an oblate, perhaps? They didn’t see very many of those any longer; Ben wondered idly if he would leave the Abbey when he began to become a man, as would be his right to choose.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” He levered himself back upright and smiled at the boy. “I just need to eat.” He needed to stay strong; they were coming to him. “ _Fight and wait for us._ ” He could do that.

The boy looked at him sympathetically from under his messy fringe of dark hair. “I got in trouble, too. Abbot Luke didn’t set me to fasting, though. That would be _terrible_.” He looked appalled at the thought; Ben remembered vaguely how hungry he’d always been at that age. If that was the worst thing this boy could imagine, he was going to be just fine. Interesting that his penance was fodder for talk. Ben wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“It’s not so bad. You just have to be careful to know when to stop.” They began walking to the refectory together. “What did you have to do…?” He had no idea what the boy’s name might be. Ben didn’t generally pay a lot of attention to the novices; their level of scholarship wasn’t enough to be interesting to him. His uncle had suggested not long ago that he train an apprentice. He hadn’t exactly wanted to explain what a terrible idea that would be; to try to teach someone else when he couldn’t trust the state of his own soul.

“Timothy. I’m Timothy. I was sleeping when I was meant to be at prayers. I’m just still not used to being awake in the middle of the night! I had to sweep out the stables. That wasn’t so bad either; the horses didn’t care much for being moved around, especially that stallion of the Abbot’s. He’s huge! And he’s a little wild; but I like horses well enough, and they like me. I might ask to go out there again. Brother? You’ve gone sort of pale.”

Ben shook his head. He probably was. “Better you than me. I don’t like horses.” Talk of the stables filled his mind with flames and the terrible sound of horses screaming, as it always did. He managed to conjure a second smile for the child. It was probably a sickly one. But they’d reached the refectory, so that was all right. “Timothy? Take some advice. Don’t hide when it’s time for prayers. It ends badly every time. A little time spent awake when you’d rather be doing something else is better. Trust me.”

Ben split off from the puzzled-looking Timothy and headed for a table. He was looking forward to his work again. It was time; to fortify himself for the work, to get back to the intricacies and concentration that gave him joy. That was what he’d been missing, these past days. Joy. So. He tucked into the breakfast Brother Robert had brought himself, pausing to thank him, and turned his attention to the next steps. How many quires would he need for the rest of Psalms? His hands were itching to hold the quill, his eyes longing to turn back to the parchment.

Where had he left the work last? It was this week’s lector who answered his thought. Brother Osgood began to read the day’s passage from Psalms to the brothers while they ate. It was an everyday occurrence, but Ben was startled nonetheless to hear the words he was to write next. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” Oh, yes. He had some definite ideas about how he wanted to illustrate that text. The beginnings of the drypoint sketch were already in his mind. The metal point for the stylus; that would be best for this. But first, to rule the parchment. How big a box would he need for the illustration? He was surprised to notice that he’d finished his meal. All the better to get back to the work. Ben didn’t notice the grins and nods of the other brothers when they saw him humming under his breath and smiling on the way out of the refectory.

…

Beyond the green sweep of the hill before them, past its occasional pine trees, tumbles of boulders, and outcroppings where the bones of the earth were revealed, there was no land. Rey had thought she’d seen the sea in all its majesty; she had, after all, sailed twice now, however briefly. But it wasn’t very far from Spain to Ceuta or back again, and land had been visible. Here, as she and Finn approached Finisterre, one side of the world was filled with water. They tethered Bastian to a nearby pine and continued on foot. They’d walk up the hill to the true end of the earth, they knew.

When they reached the top, they could see how this coast had been given its name. The shore below was rocky in the extreme; even with Rey’s very limited maritime experience she didn’t think she would want to land a ship in all of that. But she and Finn could see that there were captains undeterred by the collection of jagged perils below; here and there, vessels both large and small were drawn up on the sand between the rocks of the dangerous-looking shore.

Finn glanced over at her. “We’ll have to make our way down there somehow, to choose a vessel.” He threw a doubtful look at Bastian and the cart, behind them where they could see Octavius bouncing through the grass and striking fear into the hearts of butterflies and small mammals alike.

Rey knew he was right; and wasn’t that going to be interesting? But for a few minutes they lingered, side by side, watching the sun on the water.

…

It was the perfect place to stop and share a meal, there in the grass at the edge of things. Rey started a fire to cook the rabbit they’d caught on the way here. Octavius got his share as they ate and relaxed by the campfire. Finn was feeling pleasantly drowsy when Rey reached into her pack and took out something wrapped in cloth.

He was almost too full and sleepy to feel curious, but his interest was sparked when he realized Rey wasn’t holding something wrapped in cloth; it was cloth. “What is it?”, he asked, sitting upright and moving closer to her.

Rey’s face was serious. “When we were at the convent, Sister Mary Linnet told me of a tradition among the pilgrims at Finisterre. This place is always the end of something and the beginning of something new. Pilgrims burn a piece of their clothing to mark this passage. The sisters thought this might be of help to us. So I brought my bindings, the ones I wore before they helped me to make some new ones.” She ran the lengths of cloth through her hands. “They are the last pieces of the dress I wore when I was no one. When I was Nunca Plata’s possession and thought to be nothing more.”

There was a *hiss* as the object hit the flames of their campfire. “And now I’m ready for something new. My life as someone, I hope.”

Finn smiled at her. He still couldn’t believe she’d ever thought such a thing. “You have always been someone to me.”

Rey looked at the ground for a few breaths. When she raised her head she was smiling, though tears trembled in her eyes. “Thank you.”

Just then Finn realized he wasn’t sure what to do next. “I don’t think I have any such significant way to mark this time and place. I am not certain what to burn.” He gave his Benedictine robe a glance, and shrugged.

Rey rose and went to Finn’s own satchel. “I had thought about that. I wasn’t sure how you would feel about this, but…” She reached into the satchel and brought out a rectangular strip of cloth. “On our last day at the convent, I repaired your shirt. But I saved this because I knew it was a part of something important that had happened to you.” She held the cloth out to him. It was a strip from the shirt he’d worn when he first left Debre Damo. Oh. There was the bloodstain. It was the part of his shirt that had been damaged when Novenario wounded him. That was his own blood.

Finn was filled with conflicting emotion. He could see that Rey was watching him, and he thought she might be afraid that she’d hurt him. That was important. But first, he needed to think about what she’d given him. It was a connection to his brother, the one he’d lost. Novenario was gone, no doubt buried now by the other brothers at Debre Damo. Finn wondered if he was suspected of having killed his brother. That thought was painful. It was likely. He’d fled with the king’s gift.

He tightened his fist on the cloth. He’d said goodbye to Novenario, there below the plateau; and again, in the candlelight of the Lady Chapel in Compostela. This was only a reminder of how Novenario had ended, not of his brother as Finn had known and loved him. That part of his friend lived in his heart. No other reminder was needed.

…

Rey was sure she’d done something wrong. She’d hurt Finn somehow. Perhaps by saving the piece of cloth; or by suggesting he burn it. She couldn’t be sure. But he had been silent far too long. She tried her best to wait with patience and school her face to stillness and calm; but her chin _would_ wobble when she needed it to be firm. She laid a hand on his arm, there where she once again sat next to him by the fire. Finn’s face was always so open; but so many thoughts and emotions had flickered across it in the last few minutes that she couldn’t be sure of any of them.

He tightened his hand on the cloth and looked up at her. His smile was heartbreakingly sad. The cloth went suddenly into the fire as he laid his free hand atop her own. They watched it burn until every scrap had been consumed. “Thank you. You were right. Novenario will always be with me, but it’s time to look forward. From here, we know where to go. We go to find our true home, as the Mother Abbess said.” He rose and held a hand out to her, drew Rey to her feet and walked to the edge of everything again. And Rey went with him to the end, as she always would.  
...

Finn knew it was called the Sea of Darkness. But here as the world moved toward summer, the water beyond Finisterre was a clear and beautiful blue. Darkness lay ahead, no doubt, before they were finished; but here there was time to simply breathe and look out on the water with Rey at his side.

At first, with the glorious view stretched out in front of them, he thought the singing was just in his mind. It would not, after all, have been the first time. But Rey stirred next to him, glancing down at the ship that was slowly approaching the shore, and turned her head to listen. And he could see others on the beach below, lifting their heads at the sound.

It seemed like a fine ship, swift and sleek. Its crew moved with purpose, and rhythm, their patterns practiced enough to look like dancing. And while they worked, they were _singing._ The combined harmony of the sailors’ voices rolled across the water, up the rocks to where Finn and Rey stood, and set them both to shivering. The words were comprehensible as the men worked to anchor the vessel, and the two of them shared a look as they realized the ship’s crew was singing in English.

Men may leve alle gamys  
Tha saylen to seynt Jamys!  
Far many a man hit gramys  
When they begyn to sayle

For when they have take the see  
At Sandwyche, or at Wynchylsee  
At Brystow, or where that hit bee  
Theyr hertes begyn to fayle

Anone the mastyr commaundeth fast  
To hys shypmen, in alle the hast,  
To dress hem sone about the mast  
Theyr takelyng to make

With 'how! hissa!" then they cry,  
What howe, mate! thow stondyst to ny  
Thy felow may nat hale the by!  
Thus they begyn to crake.

A boy or tweyn anone up styen  
And overthwart the sayle-yerde lyen.  
'Y how! taylia! the remenaunt cryen,  
And pulle with alle theyr myght."

Bestowe the boote, boteswayne, anon,  
That our pylgryms may pley theron;  
For som ar lyke to cowgh and grone  
Or hit be full mydnyght.

Some lay the bookys on their knee  
And read so long they cannot see  
'Alas! mine head will split in three!'  
Thus sayeth one poor wight.

 

Finn’s English was not yet strong. Neither was Rey’s. But he knew it when he heard it. And they were singing about Saint James, pilgrims...and books. He knew that word. It was the first one he’d asked Snap to teach him.

They stood between the rocks that lined the cliff’s edge, huge slabs balanced atop each other in piles and stacks. Finn and Rey each reached out a hand, to lean against the stones while they listened to the sound that tickled up and down their spines. It began with such subtlety that they didn’t see it at first.

Rey’s stone began to _move_. It spun away from her, slowly but inexorably, rotating on an invisible axis as she drew back her hand and stared. It was followed by the stone Finn had touched, which began to spin in the opposite direction. They both watched open-mouthed, while the stones continued to move as though they both had the strength of giants.

Finn waited until the stones had stopped moving to speak. He was proud that his voice was as steady as it was. “I think…”, he began, and stopped to clear his throat. “I think we’ve found our ship.”

…

Ben eyed his completed drypoint sketch with satisfaction. He’d welcomed this illustration. He’d _known_ that it came to him with no ill intent. There in the box he’d created lay a miniature landscape. Grass rolled upward at an angle until it formed the point of a hill. A few scraggly pines stood to one side, and here and there around the scene the gray of stone stood exposed, rounded by wind and water, littered in stacks across the slope. Beyond the point, he knew, would be only the blue of the sea. The remains of a campfire smoldered, in a circle cleared in the grass. At the edge of the earth stood his angel and warrior, both gazing out toward the water.

Gulls swooped through the sky; he could hear their cries as he looked. Fisherman hauled in their traps, full of the day’s lobster catch, there on the beach to one side. And near his protectors, on either side, great stones hovered in the air as though the gulls had taught them the way to fly. Ben turned back to the text he’d been lettering earlier in the work, as he made his way through Psalms: "The birds of the heavens, and the fish of the sea, whatever passes along the paths of the seas.” His help might be coming from the hills, or across the sea, but it was speeding to him on the wings of angels.  
...

Wrestling the cart down the least precipitous road they could find that led down to a beach was not at all amusing. Bastian could pick his way just fine; donkeys were good with rough terrain. Wheels, however, were in no way compatible with this landscape. Neither of them were willing to give up the cart’s convenience, or its highly useful hiding place that held the Hospitaller’s blade.

Both of them were sweating and very irritated by the time they reached the rock-littered stretches of sand. Octavius found crabs to be absolutely fascinating; his brushy tail wagged madly and his long ears flapped as he ran here and there after the creatures. They both paused to watch him chase crustaceans, grinning at each other while they got their breath back. The ship was even more impressive up close; they walked toward it, leaving Bastian tethered to a bit of scrub. Rey could see Finn’s posture stiffen and his head snap up to look as they made out the name of the ship. It was painted twice on the hull, in Roman letters and in a script Rey hadn’t seen before. At least she thought the graceful loops and swirls that looked like clouds must be writing. She turned to Finn where he’d stopped in the sand. “What is it? What is that word?”

His expression was rueful as he shook his head. He gestured to the figurehead as it became visible, a robed form in sandals, with a sword and...wings. “ _Malak_. It means angel.”

They heard him before they saw him. The captain managed, somehow, to make his voice carry all across the rocky strand without sounding as though he was shouting. His orders to the crew were calm and measured as the passengers were escorted in boats to shore. They staggered a bit, as though it was the land that rocked and not the sea. Some of them knelt to kiss the sand and stones.

She looked for the source of the commands and saw a wide-shouldered, brawny fellow she thought would be a little under her own height if he were standing next to her rather than in the bow of one of the small boats. He wore trousers with an orange sash at the waist, and a coat thrown over his shoulders, but no shirt at all. As the boat drew closer, his face grew more clear.

A pair of liquid dark eyes, wide-set above a strong nose, scanned them with curiosity and went back to surveying the work. These were offset by a bristle of fierce whiskers across his cheeks, bracketing a neat mustache but leaving his chin bare. The lack of hair atop his head revealed the gleam of an earring. She could see the dark lines of some sort of paint or picture on one forearm against the sun- and wind-burned red-brown of his complexion. Rey was fascinated. She’d never seen anyone quite like this captain.

They waited patiently while the ship was unloaded and listened to the orders. Most of the talk was in English, but Rey heard a few words of Spanish, and when the captain turned to speak to one of his crew she saw Finn’s face brighten. “Arabic! Good, that will make this easier. I should have realized when I saw the name.” He walked over to where the captain stood with his arms crossed.

…

“ _Marhabaan, Qayid._ ” Finn continued in the same language. “Where do you sail next? My friend and I are seeking passage to England and hoped you might be able to oblige us.” He extended a hand, which was clasped in a powerful grip and shaken while a pair of dark eyes under impressive, wiry eyebrows took him in at a glance. He could see that supplies being loaded onto the ship as well. Interesting. That meant someone had been expecting the vessel.

A nod set the brush of whiskers on either side to shaking. “We are indeed sailing to England, brother. The transport of pilgrims is both our Christian duty”, he looked piously skyward with a hand to his chest, “and in some cases, very lucrative.” White teeth showed in a grin. “So at this time of year we ferry them back and forth between here and Bristow. Everyone wants to go to Compostela, but not everyone has the stomach for the walk. Though it looks as though a few of them may be regretting that choice at the moment.” He laughed softly, eyeing the most uncomfortable-looking of the pilgrims as they sprawled in the sand.

Finn glanced back at Rey, who looked puzzled as she studied their faces. “Do you have some Latin as well? Brother Reymund does not speak this language, I’m afraid.”

The captain responded by switching to that language. “Naturally. My apologies for any rudeness, Brother Reymund.” He bowed to Rey with a flourish. “I am Captain Aqbar, and the _Malak_ is my vessel. Will it be passage for just the two of you? I am certain that we can find you a place among the pilgrims returning from their sojourn on the Road.”

Rey smiled, clearly disarmed by his unexpected charm. “And pilgrims we are, as well, Captain. Yes, the two of us, with some additions we hope won’t create any problems. She gestured to Bastian, cropping the scrub on the beach. Finn wondered how even a donkey could eat that; but Bastian was not fastidious when it came to his fodder. There was a length of something green and sort of spiny dangling from one side of his mouth.

Captain Aqbar raised an eyebrow and gave an eloquent shrug. “He could not possibly be the most uncooperative passenger I have ever had. We do have space for a mount or two, and luck is with you, since you’re the first to ask for passage. The cart as well?” They both nodded. He frowned, considering, then turned up his palms in an elegant gesture of assent. “At worst, it can be used to hold fodder during the voyage. And who is this?” Octavius had grown tired of chasing the creeping inhabitants of the shore and bounded over to sit at the captain’s feet, head cocked to one side, mouth open in a canine grin. The captain reached down a hand to give the pup’s ears a scratch.

Finn smiled. “That is Octavius, our second faithful companion. He is the bane of rodents everywhere.”

“Excellent!” Captain Aqbar eyed Octavius with approval. “A skilled hunter is always welcome on my ship. Come. We will discuss your passage in my quarters, over a meal, as is only civilized.”

…

Civilized was absolutely the word. They sat down to a meal that Rey thought would not have been out of place in a lord’s manor house, here on the _Malak_. Captain Aqbar explained that barring poor weather, his route at this time of year was generally predictable, so supplies were waiting for the ship when it arrived. They dined on local androlla sausage, a warm and filling bean dish of some kind that Rey could not get enough of to please her, and a hot drink that neither of them had ever had before. It was sharp on the tongue, a little bitter but pleasing nonetheless. And she felt more awake, more ready after drinking it.

The captain told them that this was called “ _cha_ ”, at least that’s what Rey thought he’d said. There was no word for it in Latin, he told them. The leaves for the drink were dried and he had brought them all the way from _Catai_. _Cathay_? He held the glass jar for Rey to smell the delicious, earthy scent of the leaves. She let the unfamiliar words pour over her while she enjoyed the company and the meal. They finished with a torta de Santiago, which was delicious, filled with almonds and sugar and the peel of lemons, topped with an image of the cross of Santiago. Rey could see Finn eyeing her with amusement as she enthusiastically devoured the sweet.

He’d been **everywhere** , this man. The picture peeking out of the sleeve of his coat turned out to be a _kraken_. Legend said these creatures caused whirlpools that would envelop an entire ship and drag it down to the sea floor, then close over it as though nothing had ever been there. They’d told him, Aqbar said, that if you carried the image of the creature on your skin, it could not harm you. He’d found a man in the Kalmar Union who still practiced the art of adding ink to skin and done it on the spot. Rey had seen squid; they were caught and eaten in the south of Spain; but this creature was sinister, rendered there in dark ink and seemingly formed of lines that knotted in upon themselves; she imagined it was huge and deadly and cold, and felt Finn shiver next to her as he looked at the image of the beast.

A lobster crawled along his other forearm; this one, he said, had been done in Catai, where it was simply a beautiful way of marking yourself after a significant event. Captain Aqbar had added it after his first voyage there, to celebrate the successful trip; his longest since he’d first left his own home in Araby decades before. Not everyone who set out for that far-off land arrived, by sea or over the Silk Road. But this crew was hand-picked over the course of many years; they were all daring souls who longed to see the four corners of the world and feared no death that might meet them as they flew across the waves.

They’d even been to Finn’s home, it seemed. He brightened when the captain mentioned Africa, and they had a rapid conversation in Arabic (she thought) with much gesturing and grinning. Rey heard the words Debre Damo (she remembered that was the name of the monastery where all this had begun) and watched Finn’s sunny expression cloud over all at once. Abruptly, he switched back to Latin and began discussing the cost of their passage. Rey thought she saw a flicker of surprise from their host at the interruption, but Captain Aqbar smoothly apologized again for speaking in a tongue that Brother Reymund did not know and completed the bargaining amiably enough.

By the time the meal and its pleasantries were over, their things had been loaded onto the vessel, cart and all, and Octavius was happily searching for rodents; only Bastian remained. The captain produced some dried fronds of a plant he called lucerne; the donkey went wild for the new fodder, and happily chewed away at it while Finn covered his eyes with a sleeve and accompanied him onto the ship. It wasn’t easy, but between the new treat and Finn’s calming presence at his halter, Bastian was soon installed in his new quarters without too much fuss.

Rey spent the time cutting branches and picking cones from the few pines that were scattered across the hill above. They might be spending the voyage in a converted corner of a cargo hold, but for at least the first part of the trip, they would be comfortable. She had just finished arranging them into a semblance of bedding, with the aid of some of their spare clothes, when the call came to board; the tides were favorable and it was time to set sail. Finn was on deck waiting for her; they stood together watching the bustle, listening to the singing, and looking over the water to where they would travel, seeking home.

…

The demon was angry. At least Ben thought it must be. He’d started struggling against the images again, holding onto himself and his work with as much fight as he could muster. Abbot Luke had largely left him alone this past while (in fact, he seemed to be avoiding Ben as much as possible), and life and work was beginning to return to normal; but Ben remembered the searing rage that had run through him, and felt it again at the thought that his work, his hands, eyes, his _words_ should be taken from him and bent to the will of another. Here in dream, though, the fire inside him was nothing compared to the flames that surrounded him, threatening to consume everything that made him who he wanted to be.

He could see the flames, _taste_ the smoke, and feel his robes starting to burn. The crackle and roar was deafening. But even as he cringed away from the heat, he felt a breeze, blessedly cool, part the curtain of smoke and bring him the smell of sea air. Desperate, he leapt up and dove through the blaze that encircled him; only to find that as it began to scorch him, it had disappeared. Something cooled the pain where his skin had started to sear and his robes to smolder, and he was in another place.

Ben floated, safe and seemingly weightless, in the dimness. He was cold; that was all right, he’d been cold before, and it was welcome after the inferno he’d just escaped. His hearing was oddly muffled, as though sound was coming to him through layers of cloth; and yet some noises seemed amplified. He could hear the groan and creak of wood as it strained and flexed. Shafts of light pierced the dimness around him; enough to show him the dark strands that coiled and drifted in the corner of his vision. Ben turned to look, only to realize that these were strands of his own hair waving around his face.

A gasp of surprise produced no sound, only the taste of salt, and the cold touch of water on his lips. A lift of his head showed him the source of the sunlight that angled past him; and there above him was unmistakably the hull of a ship. Ben had a thought that he should be panicking, as he came to understand that he was far below the surface of the sea; but he felt at peace. He was safe from the flames here, apart from the guilt and fear that constantly pulled at him. And there on the surface, he knew, his guardians were running toward him like the ship; borne before the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sailors' singing was inspired by [this Tweet](https://twitter.com/northumbriana/status/846454474654781442) but the song is one of the earliest recorded sea shanties, some of the text (and some information on early sea shanties) can be found [here](http://shadyislepirates.com/?q=shanty). The full text and translation below (from Gray, Douglas. The Oxford Book of Late Medieval Verse and Prose. Oxford: Clarendon, 1985: 25-6)
> 
>   
> 
> 
> There really are giant slabs of rock on the Galician coast, though I moved them to where our action is, and they move at just a touch. They're called pedras de abalar (oscillating rocks), and one of the most famous ones is spoken of as the boat in which Mary visited Saint James in Galicia and called Pedra da Barca. They are residual corestones formed initially by spheroidal weathering and have been exposed by erosion or glacial erratics left by retreating glaciers.
> 
> I have adapted a modern tradition in which pilgrims to this day burn a piece of their clothing to mark the end of their time on the Road (there is also a bronzed pilgrim's boot at the site). Ben's sketch was inspired by this beautiful photograph ([from this website](https://caminoways.com/fisterra-pilgrims-legend-and-beauty)):
> 
> Our Captain's tattoos are unusual in this area, but then he is a highly unusual fellow. Here is a rendition of Captain Aqbar, from one of the artists in residence with @LoveThemFiercely  
> 
> 
> And for some manuscript fun, here are a couple of medieval illustrations of ships!
> 
>   
> Grace of God leads Pilgrim onto Ship of Religion as Fear of God waits on the gangplank" ([Walters W.141 fol. 87r](http://manuscripts.thewalters.org/viewer.php?id=W.141#page/176/mode/2up))
> 
>   
> Noah's Ark ([British Library Cotton Claudius B iv fol. 14r](https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/anglo-saxon-justice-in-the-old-english-hexateuch))
> 
> Many thanks as always to @leoba for more manuscripts, all the pictures I don't know how to do, moodboards, medieval expertise, on-spot research, and so much more. (And more Finn being wonderful), and @flypaper-brain, for more Star Wars, always more Star Wars, the inspiration for the last vision, enabling, enthusiasm, editing, and encouragement, all of which are absolutely vital and none of this would happen without them.


	11. Aequor ad Anglia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sea to England: In which our warrior and angel are at sea. In which we cross the briny deep. In which some take to shipboard life, and some do not. In which our Brother Ben protects others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was fully intended that landfall and travel in England be part of this chapter. And then the whole chapter was at sea. But. A small triumph for Brother Ben, a Very Interesting Manuscript... And we have very important visions (@flypaper-brain takes the credit and blame for that one this time), manuscripts and clarification of my sometimes opaque and obfuscatory prose and some Finn appreciation (@leoba), and storms and drama and gleeful nerdery (me, @lovethemfiercely!).

Rey was an irritatingly excellent sailor. Finn knew he should be delighted by this. He was, generally, delighted by Rey and the way she loved to experience something new. But his normal reaction was tempered, in this case, by the discovery that he was *not* an excellent sailor. He’d thought he was past wondering about this. Finn had traveled on a dhow near Egypt and on a fishing boat across the sea to Gibraltar. He hadn’t suffered the mal de mer, and he’d even enjoyed hauling a fishing net.

Some part of the earth had always been in sight, though, and evidently that made all the difference. Once out of sight of Finisterre (the end of the earth indeed!), there was nothing. Nothing but deep, dark, cold, heaving water that by night looked black as pitch and seemed eager to clutch at their suddenly tiny vessel and drag it into the icy depths. No one would ever find them. Their bones would lie on the sea’s floor and only the fish would hear their names.

* _Whuff._ * Bastian blew a warm breath onto the side of Finn’s neck, startling him out of his circle of unpleasant thoughts and making him laugh. “Thank you. I did need that.” He gave the donkey’s neck a good scratch and returned to brushing him. It was easier, here in the hold with Bastian. He couldn’t see the roiling waves. He could feel the ship creak and strain; but it was relatively warm here, and there was an end to the horizon. Rey was no doubt blissful up on the deck, as she had been since they set sail. Finn didn’t begrudge her that. She deserved every happiness. It was simply difficult to watch when her joy in shipboard life was so... _conspicuous_.

“Finn?” Rey searched for him in the dimness. She must be half-blind after coming back from the sunlight and sparkle out there. “Are you back here?” She was picking her way toward him with her hands extended.

“I’m over here, with Bastian.” Octavius padded along beside her. The only thing he liked better than scampering across the deck with Rey when it was clear and steady outside was hunting the vermin in the back corners of the hold. Finn walked forward to take her hand as her eyes adjusted. She’d changed to her boys’ clothing (while he stood watch outside their curtained-off space) as soon as the ship was underway, and even in the dim lantern light down here he could see that she was tanned from the sun, strengthened by the work, and as beautiful as she had always been.

Her face brightened as she saw him. “Come with me, Finn. It’s beautiful today. The sea is calm and the wind is in our favor. Come and see. There was a WHALE. It was like it went on forever, like a huge island of a creature, but beautiful and...serene. And its flukes! Captain Aqbar said that is what the tail is called. And yesterday there were dolphins…”

Finn let her lead him up the ladder to the deck. Perhaps the fresh air would do him good.

…

He was enjoying the sunshine. At least she thought he was. Finn wouldn’t venture near the rail. This baffled Rey. Life at sea was wonderful; so exciting, and there was always something to be doing. The captain had been kind enough to let Brother Reymund turn a hand to whatever needed doing. They’d both gone back to shirts and trousers (which Rey found she vastly preferred) for the voyage, “so as to be best able to help when we’re needed”, as Finn had said. Rey knew he’d done that for her sake; he hadn’t exactly been climbing the rigging.

So she tried to pummel her thoughts into some sort of shape that would tell her how to help him. That was hard. The ship, the water, the sun and sky, all of it made her feel nothing but happy. The hold was dark and cramped and there were smells. Who wouldn’t want to be up on deck where all the light and life were?

Rey asked some of the crew if they had any letters or papers they wanted to send to family or friends in England and explained that Brother Finn was a skilled scribe and would be happy to help. That did seem to help for a little while; he needed light to write, so Finn was installed on deck with his tools and some parchment, amidships away from the rail and as out of the sailors’ way as could be managed.

The conditions weren’t the best, she knew, but concentrating on writing and helping the crew seemed to make Finn feel better; at least, he was biting his lip, which she’d noticed he would do when he was wholeheartedly enjoying his work. It was oddly distracting when he did that; Rey found herself stopping to watch and had to remind herself to go back to mending and the work of the vessel.

The strategy was working well until the light suddenly dimmed. Rey was inching along a spar so she could replace a tricky bit of line when she noticed the shadows were gone. A look down at the deck showed her that Finn had noticed, too; he was frowning at the darkened sky. Above her, there was a wall of cloud that hadn’t been there until just now, and the birds that normally circled the mast were wheeling away from the ship. The clouds were sullen-looking and heavy, and Rey could hear shouts and see crewmen scurrying to obey. She heard Captain Aqbar’s voice roll across the deck, in Latin, English, and Arabic, she thought. “REEF THOSE SAILS! At full sail, we won’t last long against this storm!” She could see Finn packing his things away as she climbed down to the deck. A cold wind began to stir the short strands of her hair against her cheek, and a drop of icy water slid down the back of her neck.

There had been storms in Seville, of course. Rey could remember hearing rain drumming on the tile roof of the house where she had worked and slept. It was a good sound; soothing, even, if you were sleeping under the eaves. But the sound that came next made Rey’s ribs vibrate and her teeth rattle. The nearest thing she’d ever heard was the sound of a cannon being fired for practice once when Nunca Plata had sent her to market. It was wonderfully shocking. Finn had just made it to the ladder down to the hold when the billows above began to empty themselves onto their vessel. The thought of following him crossed her mind; then a great branching tree of light crackled its way from the sky to the sea, leaving a memory of itself across her eyes. It was entirely too fascinating to consider going below.

Rey helped to ready the vessel as best she could, taking in sail and making sure everything that could be stowed was stowed. When there was finally nothing more to do, she found herself in the bow, teeth bared, a line wound about her arm for balance; she was soaked to the skin, grinning madly into the wind and laughing at the roll of the thunder. It was impossible to look away from the fury of the heavens.

…

Finn stowed his tools carefully on a sort of shelf formed by the beams at the interior of the hold. Most of the pilgrims were huddled together, praying. He joined them for a short while; they needed the comfort that a man of God could provide, and it was his duty to help. He thought back to his first meeting with Rey, and the Salva Nos, the chanting he’d heard in his mind. They recited the prayer together.

”...solamen angelorum; Salva nos, Stella Maris et Regina Caelorum…” Solace of angels, Save us, Star of the Sea and Queen of Heaven. The words spun through Finn’s mind and changed as they went; his head turned. As they finished the prayer, he felt his eyes being drawn, through the planking of the deck above, toward the bow. The boards of the ship enclosed him, but he felt a cold wind tug at his robe and chill his flesh. Angels. Queen. Reina. REY. It was enough to propel him up the ladder, despite the unfathomable blackness he knew lay all around.

He was drenched in seconds. He kicked his sandals back down the ladder; they would do him no good in this. The few sailors remaining on deck loomed at him out of the lashing spray, the rain and cloud. Lightning showed him instants of their frenetic attempts to keep all the souls on the vessel safe, like a nightmare-lit illumination. Most of this voyage, he’d avoided the rail as though it carried plague; but he clung to it now, creeping along like some sort of upright, seagoing earthworm.

He was close to his goal when a shape skidded past him. He had time to recognize one of the youngest of Aqbar’s crew, Magnus; a Norseman, he thought. As he registered the young man’s face and the checked cloth he always wore bound across his brow, Finn reached out a hand. His fingers caught the lacing of the crewman’s shirt collar; there was a tearing of cloth and he was left holding the lace in his hand as Magnus disappeared over the rail, his mouth open in a cry of despair that was lost in the animal shriek of the wind. Finn stood frozen holding the lace and staring at the water, which showed no sign that the young sailor had ever been. By the time he could move again, the cry of “MAN OVERBOARD!” had already been raised. They would find nothing. No one could come back from water that hungered like that.

Heart in his throat, a prayer on his lips for the doomed Magnus, Finn thought the pounding of his pulse must be audible over the storm as he continued picking his way along the rail. He’d reached the bow. Thunder roared along his skin and crashed into his ears; it was followed with no discernible pause by a forked snake’s-tongue of lightning. And against it like a shadow he saw her, standing upright against the wind with no visible support. She was _laughing_. But not for long. Before his eyes, the tempest screamed defiance in return and with a push and a pull his angel lost her footing and was driven back, arms pinwheeling for balance. He had only time enough to catch hold of a nearby piece of rigging.

 

...

As Rey stood watching, a shift in the gale and a roll of the ship took her footing, and she skidded backwards, lost her grasp as she clutched at her bit of line...and slid straight into Finn, who closed his arms around her as she thumped into the solid weight of him.

He too had had the forethought to secure himself against the storm’s battering; the sizzle and flash of lightning that followed the next great drumbeat of thunder showed her his wild eyes and clenched jaw; she wondered that he didn’t break his own teeth. Once the noise passed, she could hear Finn say “I was worried about you. I could...feel the wind pulling at you. All this…”, he spared a look at the tempest howling across the deck, “suits you, to be sure. But please, I can’t...come below.” Rey felt selfish to have only considered her own fascination with the new experience. He’d come up to get her, despite his own fears, in conditions that had begun to frighten even Rey herself; it was possibly the bravest thing she’d ever seen. His face, when she could see it, was faintly gray; but his arms were steady and Rey knew she was safe.

They slowly made their way together to the hold again, and took turns changing back into their dry robes. Even once they were dry, Finn couldn’t seem to stop shivering. She asked him what was wrong, but he would only shake his head. That was all right; she didn’t need an explanation to sense his distress. Once they’d checked on Bastian and Octavius, Rey thought again of the sound of rain drumming on a roof and how comforting it had once been. That had been good; but it was even better when you were not alone, and you could give comfort to another. She drew Finn down to sit on the pine branches, dried now, that served as their bedding, wrapped her arms around him, and listened to the wind.

…

It must be a dream. Why else would he be on a ship at sea when he’d just been at prayers? Ben spared a thought for the trouble he’d be in if he was discovered sleeping; hadn’t he just been telling young Timothy where that led? But his nights were restless and plagued with horrors. The warm hum of voices in unison was often enough to send him spinning off to sleep.

He had to be dreaming. Ben had never been on a vessel like this. Not that he could see much of it in the wind and the dark and the driving rain, but it was large, a seagoing ship, not the little fishing vessels he was more accustomed to seeing. Why was he here? A spear of light across the clouds showed him two figures, in front of him at the bow. He ran toward them; the deck was drenched, but his feet were steady and he was dry. He could hear and see the maelstrom, but it couldn’t touch him. Half-blind from the leftover glare across his vision, Ben reached the two as the smaller of the pair slid back across the slick planks toward the other. He knew them, though he could barely see them. His warrior held the angel tight, anchoring it to earth.

The wind let loose a deafening howl, the thunder roared, and even a warrior’s strength wasn’t enough; his vision still wasn’t very clear, but Ben could see to his horror that both sets of feet were beginning to slip. He threw himself forward, locking his own arms around both of them and bracing them against the wind. After a moment or two, the wind slackened just enough and the two of them turned out of his embrace to make their way across the deck. When the water hit his face, Ben wondered what had changed; but he opened his eyes to see Brother Daniel shake his head, lips pursed, then relent and grin at Ben.  Daniel went on to wield the aspergillum of holy water on the next of their brothers. The water was cold; but it warmed him to think of his warrior and angel; and this time, he’d been _their_ protector.

…

There was no need to tell her yet that another had met the death she’d escaped. There would be time enough for that on the morrow. Finn couldn’t seem to get warm. His bones were cold. And yet, there was something in the way they’d both made it back that bolstered his courage. Maybe it had just been the rain; or the rope. But as he sat with Rey to wait out the gale in the relative calm of the hold, safe and dry again, Finn could have sworn, up there on the deck when he’d tried to hold on to Rey and his feet were starting to slip, that he’d felt another set of arms around them. That he _knew_ that frame, taller and broader than his own. He’d thought he was falling and they would both be lost, swallowed up by the sea as Magnus had been; but they were held upright together, _sheltered_ until the wind died down again. Between that thought and Rey’s arms around him now, he believed he could weather any storm.

After what seemed like an eternity, the storm began to quiet and they slept. When Finn woke, Rey was no longer on her pallet of boughs next to his. He went to check on Bastian and Octavius, who had both come through the weather, he thought, better than he had. Finn was vaguely ashamed that the storm had made him so fearful; but the groan of the ship’s boards as the wind and waves hammered against it had sounded as though it might split apart at any moment and spill them all into the deep. All of them, to follow Magnus to the bottom. It was Octavius this time who brought him back out of the thought, licking Finn’s face as he stooped to check on the donkey’s fodder. He shook his head, smiled, and gave the pup a thorough scratching.

Finn was getting ready to climb the ladder and see what had become of the _Malak_ when he saw Rey descending above him. She slid down the ladder without using the rungs, he noticed, as though she’d been at sea for years. “Come with me. I have a gift for you!” He was pulled back up the ladder by one hand before he had time to answer. Rey dragged him by the hand across the deck; Finn was curious when he realized they were heading for Captain Aqbar’s stateroom.

 

The captain himself greeted them as they arrived. He looked tired, and a little sad. That was no surprise. “Brother Reymund thought you might need a distraction if we run into any more weather. And I thought perhaps I had an ideal solution.” He held out a small, stout volume, bound plainly in russet-brown leather, in one hand. Finn took the book and opened it; the first page that met his gaze was written in Roman letters, but he didn’t know the language. He looked up, puzzled. “In England, while readying the Malak for one of my voyages to the Kalmar Union, I acquired a rather interesting passenger.” He gave a wry smile at the memory.

“Brother Leofric had been... _invited_ to leave his home in Oxford. He wasn’t, shall we say, entirely homogeneous so far as orthodoxy was concerned. And the strict examination of orthodoxy in others had troubled him to the point at which he declined to participate. But all of the brothers knew him to be a gifted scholar, a voracious reader, and an altogether kind soul. It was suggested that he take himself to Bohemia...or perhaps it was Moravia?...where his views on simony would be more readily accepted.”

Finn had begun leafing through the volume as the captain spoke; his interest sparked and his heart lifted as he saw that the book contained multiple scripts and languages. There were stanzas that looked like songs or poetry, some in Arabic; there was a chart of the constellations with notations and pictures. He was already fascinated and he had no idea what the book might be.

“The good brothers at Oxford did not extend their tolerance to a travel stipend, unfortunately; so Brother Leofric made a gift to me of this volume in return for his passage.” Captain Aqbar’s mouth quirked sideways with humor and he shrugged. “I’m not certain that a value in currency can be placed on this object; but it was invaluable to me, as I suspect it will be to you. It contains all of the dropped bits of information, from all the corners of the world, that Brother Leofric collected as he travelled across England; as though he were a magpie that had found them shining in the sun, and brought the baubles to his written nest.” Aqbar laughed despite the exhaustion in his eyes, no doubt at the idea of that curious Dominican bird.

“Most importantly, he was something of a linguist; the volume contains writing in Arabic, English, Latin, French, even the language of the Hebrew people. And he had a tendency to write the same text in Latin and English, side by side; which I would imagine would greatly benefit you as you leave my ship. In addition,” he spread his hands, “I offer myself to help you in deciphering it, insofar as I am available. But you have young Brother Reymund to thank; if he had not asked me about lessons in language, it might never have come to mind.”

Finn was speechless. “I...thank you, I…” His eyes filled, close to spilling over as he bowed his head to the book again. “Captain Aqbar, you have done me a kindness I can hardly credit.”

The captain smiled. “It’s Djibril. If we are to commence the study of language together, Djibril will be altogether more serviceable. The book is a gift; I have read it often enough that I can conjure each page in my mind without any need of the thing itself.”

…

Rey was gleeful. Her petition to Captain Aqbar...no, Djibril. She must remember that. Finn said it was the Arabic way to say Gabriel, like the angel. And he certainly was. He hadn’t hesitated to help her, even though he’d spent the night directing the vain search for poor Magnus. She’d heard the news when she’d awoken this morning. She’d asked Saint Anthony to help him; Finn had told her he was the patron saint of the lost. Loss was the way of things; she knew this. She understood now why Finn had shivered, there in the hold. It was mere chance neither of them had been lost as well. But she’d found the way to keep the storm and its consequences from the front of his mind.

Since he’d got his hands on the book, Finn had hardly seemed to notice that he was at sea at all. Most of his time was now spent on the deck, because the light was better there. Whenever she passed by him as he sat and pored over every page, he would exclaim and call her over to relate some new detail. And she had to agree, there were things in that one small book that she would never have imagined. Here was a chart of the heavens, Finn told her, with all the constellations in their ordered march across the sky, and next to it a diagram (what was a diagram, she wondered?) that showed the moon crossing the sun’s path and blocking its light.

There was poetry, he said; in Arabic. Part the first was a treatise on the Church fathers, in Latin. It seemed, Finn said, to have been Leofric’s attempt, or that of his brothers, to reconcile his own thoughts and views with those of his Church as represented by the scholar-brothers at Oxford. This did not interest Rey in the slightest, but she could hear Finn exclaiming in agreement with or in opposition to various points the author made as he sat in the sun with his face buried in his reading. It made her heart rejoice to see him so enchanted and absorbed.

They sped along the water; Finn told Rey he’d found a poem in French. As far as she knew, he didn’t speak or read French, but with a little help from the captain she could WATCH him acquire the words. His capacity for languages never ceased to amaze her. The two of them sat in Aqbar’s stateroom; when Rey came by to check on them, she heard a sharp bark of laughter from the captain and heard Finn say “So the Mermaid is...OH. And she is Youth. But they’re not both…? Then how did the author, Deguilleville, was it? How did he...and there in the depths as they swim, that is the Father of Lies? I must confess myself a bit confused.” Djibril must have leaned close to explain something to Finn; Rey heard a murmur and a chuckle, and Finn said “I see. Well...that IS interesting.”

When Rey came back to the stateroom for lessons in English, she could hear Djibril and Finn discussing a passage about drowning, and there was not a flicker of fear in Finn’s voice. Rey grinned to herself. He still wouldn’t stand by the rail, but her distraction was a resounding success. When they were finished with the lesson, Finn asked Djibril what the last story in the book might be. The captain insisted that it was English, or so Leofric had maintained, but he’d never been able to decipher the text. Finn made a wordless, inquisitive noise and immediately began comparing words in the text with some of the English prayers, notes, and seemingly random bits of writing that were scattered through the text. Djibril explained that they’d be arriving in Bristow very soon; Rey could tell Finn hadn’t heard a word as he muttered to himself about...Bee-Wolf? They’d both learned those words in English, but Rey didn’t understand how they went together.

…

“I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey.” The Song of Songs was always an interesting challenge. Ben stopped to read back through what he’d already written. “Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.” He found himself idly doodling in the margins, outside the planned illustration. A bee appeared under his fingers, round and fuzzy; a wolf howled at a tall pine, its boughs festooned with cones. A pomegranate dripped juice perilously near the script, seeds spilling from the interior where it had been cut. A mermaid’s tail wrapped itself around the “I” at the beginning of the passage; and oddly, feathers rained down on the letters below. Unaccountably, Ben found himself blushing as he continued to letter the text. Some of these passages were...unsettling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full credit to @leoba and her friendly resources for our manuscript. What a wonderful book. We wish we had one. Travel is sometimes about broadening your horizons, and sometimes about discovering that broad horizons scare the tar out of you. The Song of Songs has some just wonderfully juicy words and I don't doubt that it will be revisited. And Rey would ABSOLUTELY laugh into the face of a deadly storm. That girl eats adrenaline and bares her teeth at danger.
> 
> MANUSCRIPT NOTE
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> We decided that we needed Finn to get a manuscript on the ship, or soon after departing, to help move the story forward. He and Rey know nothing of England, so the book serves to guide them to people who will help them find their way. This book, like many of the ones that appear in our story, doesn't exist in real life, and it was _so much fun_ to invent it. Our starting point was the manuscript pictured above, a 15th century Dominican prayer book from a community of German nuns. It's quite small, not even 5 x 4 inches, about 250 leaves and would have been the right size to be carried in the pocket. This manuscript is also in two parts, imagine two separate booklets, one 150 pages, the other 100, bound together. So we decided our Leofric would have a similar book, the first half with religious texts and the other half blank. Leofric is a Dominican, and Dominicans didn't live in monasteries like our Benedictine friends Luke and Ben; they travel the countryside and preach. Which means our Leofric is able to travel the country, copying bits and pieces from interesting books along the way and, apparently, questioning his life choices. We are very fond of Leofric.
> 
> Leofric has seen many books, and here are some of the texts he copied into his litel bok:
> 
> [](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b84497167/f287.item)  
> The part where Akbar and Finn are talking about the Mermaid and Youth is from Pilgrimage of the Life of Man by Guillaume De Deguileville. It was translated into English by John Lydgate in 1426, but that's too early for Leofric so he copied the original French, but offered his own parallel translation. I haven't read this but I have it on good authority that it's wild. (Here's my authority: "Pilgrimage is FANTASTIC! If you read it like a hallucination fever dream. There are also great ocean/drowning bits. Including a moment where Youth (beautiful young woman with feathered thighs) gets in a wrestling match with the Mermaid of Lust. The narrator gender flips this somehow (can't remember which character) which keeps it from being a lesbian wrestling match. But still." So this is pretty new and interesting for Finn.
> 
>   
> Something like this, a map of the Constellations from a [14th century Hebrew astronomical book](http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/d/medren/9948521743503681).
> 
>   
> Something like this, a diagram of a solar eclipse from a [14th century English Scientific miscellany](http://www.bl.uk/catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts/record.asp?MSID=5482&CollID=16&NStart=120317&_ga=2.171684969.871787517.1537377495-1794153947.1535984259).
> 
>   
> Some Arabic love poetry (this is حديث بياض ورياض, "[The Narrative of Bayad and Riyad](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hadith_Bayad_wa_Riyad)", a 13th century love story. The only surviving copy is now in the Vatican, but in our AU someone brought a copy to England and Leofric got his hands on it)
> 
>   
> Finally, if you haven't figured it out, the English text that they can't read is in fact Beowulf. The Beowulf manuscript was damaged in a fire in the 18th century but it now lives in the British Library (it's taped into paper frames, which is why this photo looks a bit strange).


	12. Ligamen et Litteratura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ligamen et Litteratura: possible interpretations include Ribbon and Literature, Bonds and Learning, or A String of Letters. All of those. In which Rey discovers street food. In which there is a ribbon of memory. In which Brothers Finn and Reymund fear that our scribe is no longer with them, that their bond is broken. In which a demon spits flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've included the beautiful facade of Bath Abbey a little early; the advantage of an AU, even an historical one, is that research to determine whether such a thing could have taken place is occasionally balanced by "we want this in here, so in this universe, it happened *this* way." Bristol, for instance, really did have a rich street food tradition even at this time so that Rey could eat ALL THE THINGS. And we continue to delight in manuscript nerdery (@leoba), richness of memory and significance (@flypaper-brain), and food and visions and angst (me, @lovethemfiercely, well, all of us,really). There are two very long chapters at once here so that we could get to a very specific point. Best to read both at once.

She had gravy on her cheek. Why did that make his heart thump in his chest? Finn stole glances at Rey as they wandered through Bristow’s Cooks’ Row. They’d both been enjoying the sights of the city (and its sounds, smells, and especially tastes). It had been difficult to say goodbye to the _Malak_ ; not to being aboard the ship, Finn was glad enough to be on terra firma again, but to Djibril and the rest of the crew.

Rey, especially, had almost become one of them during the voyage, and he thought he’d seen a few sets of damp eyes at the thought of losing Reymund’s willing cheer and enthusiasm. Her own had been unashamedly streaming as she shook the hand of each crewman in turn, just as they had when Finn (for lack of a proper priest on board) had held a funeral at sea for Magnus Døkkrbrenna. Djibril had told them that was what he’d been properly called, that Magnus had chosen his own name after leaving a home to which he could never return; Finn’s guts had twisted in sympathy. He would remember that name. It was important to have someone remember your name when you’d been lost.

Their arrival in Bristow had brightened Rey’s outlook as well as his own. This was a thriving port; there were so many people from all over the world and so many new things to experience. They’d entered through the Church In The Wall; so they’d heard local denizens say. It was exactly that, a narrow, oddly-shaped spire and building set into and around Saint John’s Gate through the old city walls. Finn thought it was clever of the Bristow city fathers to have built it that way, as though Saint John himself was guarding the city as it teemed and bustled.

Once they’d reached Cooks’ Row, though… He knew, intellectually, that Rey had never really been given enough to eat, but it was entirely another to witness her delirious joy at the new delicacies on offer here. Thanks to Dorothea, they weren’t anxious about funds; this was just as well, since each time Finn turned to glance at Rey she was eating something different that she’d just bought from a vendor as they passed. She was happy to share, and insisted he try everything as well as they strolled through the city leading Bastian and the cart, Octavius at their heels. They knew enough to leave the majority of their funds in their concealed hiding place, with only a few coins in the pouch at each of their belts.

First had been bread, which they had both frankly craved after the sea voyage. Next she’d spotted a plump, red fruit that seemed unfamiliar, until Rey realized its resemblance to the little red _fresas_ she’d picked back at home. These, though, were an entirely different experience; they were large and tart and sweet and juicy, which he learned when she pressed one to his mouth until he took a bite. It was indescribably delicious, and she exclaimed and waved the fruits about, splashing them both with juice. It was possibly just as well that the Benedictines preferred black.

She’d found another cookshop selling pancakes. These were some sort of flatbread, he saw, though nothing like the _injera_ from home, which Finn found that he missed; these didn’t have the proper thinness and sour flavor. Rey wrapped one around the remaining fruit, which she said was even better. She told the vendor he’d better be careful, or the clouds he’d made were going to drift skyward. It amused Finn to no end to watch the burly middle-aged man turn pink. He began to wonder where on earth all this food was _going_ , given Rey’s spare frame. It was likely to remain a mystery. And then...then she’d found the pies. Perfectly browned and savory, filled with fresh peas and other mysterious vegetable content; they sent her into raptures greatly enjoyed by the pie-maker, and were the source of the rich brown gravy occupying the left side of her face.

“You’ve...there’s some…”, he started. She merely gave him a puzzled, inquisitive look. Exasperated and a little unsettled by his own thoughts, he took the last of the pie’s crust from her hand and used it to clean the food from her cheek, then handed it back to her. Rey looked surprised for a moment; then she laughed, shrugged, and ate the bit of crust. Finn shook his head, laughing himself. “We’ll need to think of journey food from here. Something dried or preserved that we can carry with us to Canterbury. So be sure to watch for that sort of thing as well as...all of these new delights”, Finn said, smiling at her.

“Yes. Of course”, Rey responded, grinning.. “We’ve got somewhere to be. I just...this is all so WONDERFUL.” The Benedictine turning in a circle with arms outspread got a few bemused looks. Finn had found that both of them were mostly unremarkable here; there were a few exclamations at their accents, especially his, but otherwise interest generally centered around what and how much they were going to buy. Brother Reymund’s extravagant compliments were well received; folk were proud of what they had made and liked to hear that it was well done.

A merchant selling dried fish lay at one end of the street where it crossed that of the cloth merchants, and the purveyor was fortunately comfortable with Latin (though both Finn and Rey were acquiring English at a rapid pace). Haggling with merchants had been part of her skills at “making do” and “earning her keep” under Nunca Plata (a thought that still angered Finn enough to make his ears burn), and he knew she was more than equal to the task. He let his thoughts and eyes drift to the cloth wares on offer. There was wool _everywhere_ ; Finn wondered if all of England outside Bristow must be teeming with sheep.

It wasn’t the woolen goods that drew his eye, though. A small shop tucked in between the large wool-merchants was a riot of color. Finn glanced at Rey, who was still happily engaged in bargaining, arms waving as Brother Reymund good-naturedly harangued the merchant that he would beggar two Benedictine brothers, men of God, the _shame_ of it, had he allotted extra time for confession and penance this week? And the merchant fired back that this fish came all the way from Iceland, where they dried it with _cold_ , not the more usual smoke or sun, and would the good Brother like to go and fetch more himself? He wandered toward the tiny shop and its tempting rainbow of wares. Were these...they were.

It was silk; bolts of cloth, what looked like lengths for slippers already embroidered, and...he stopped mid-thought and mid-step. Here were lengths of ribbon in a remarkable blue, like our Lady’s mantle, but darker, more like the sapphires adorning the Hospitaller’s blade or the sea that Rey had loved so much. Some of these lengths, too, had already been embroidered. Finn leaned closer to see the pattern and realized that these were flowers, in violet and white. Minutes later he was back at the cod shop; Rey was just finishing the purchase, and Finn was now somehow the owner of a length of blue silk ribbon embroidered with blooms that reminded him of Gibraltar and the way it become a blossoming paradise after the rain. For something so small, it had cost a shocking number of coins.

Finn didn’t remember bargaining, he’d been too distracted by the memories evoked by that beautiful bit of ribbon; though he did recall the merchant’s surprise that a Benedictine monk would want such a thing. When asked from whence he hailed, upon explaining that he’d been born in Ethiopia the silk-merchant had asked him if he was a descendant of Prester John. Finn, startled, had responded with perfect honesty that he had no idea, but he didn’t believe so. The merchant seemed disappointed. Finn had simply been baffled. He stowed the ribbon hastily in his belt-pouch and moved to help load the stockfish onto their cart. It wasn’t exactly exciting, but they wouldn’t starve.

While they were on their way out of the city, Rey led Bastian so that Finn could peruse Brother Leofric’s book. He’d found some references to the priory at Bath. Leofric had been staying there when he copied the excerpts from the fascinating Bee-Wolf story that Finn still hadn’t quite deciphered; he was still working on the English language parts of the book, but a Brother William was mentioned in conjunction with that manuscript. This brother might be a good resource in making their way across England, about manuscripts, and it was likely they could stay at the priory. While Finn mulled over their next steps, reading as he walked and trusting that he would notice if the cart stopped, he felt a tug.

At first Finn thought he’d been jostled; the street wasn’t entirely full of people, but many folk were enjoying the mild weather and the displays of goods. But the tugging sensation was repeated, and he realized that it was someone attempting to open his satchel. He whirled to confront the thief, but found no one but an elderly couple who flinched at his sudden movement and, he guessed, his expression. He apologized to them and quickly moved up to where Rey walked at Bastian’s side. “We need to get out of the city. _Now._ ”

To her credit, Rey didn’t ask any questions. She simply turned Bastian and the cart onto a wider thoroughfare suitable for wheeled traffic and they both clambered up to the seat. Bastian’s preference for being led would have to take second place for a bit. Finn shook the reins, and they trundled out of Bristow’s crowded heart.

…

There would be time enough later to ask why Finn was suddenly in a tearing hurry. For now, the look on his face told Rey he’d been badly spooked. They had the supplies they needed; she’d managed to acquire some dried fruit and a root vegetable or two, and find out the direction to take to get to Bath. Octavius turned a few circles behind them and settled in among the supplies with every evidence of enjoyment, and they drove in tense silence until they’d reached the city limits. Only then did Finn slow the cart’s pace. Bastian wasn’t quite lathered, it wasn’t possible to go that fast inside Bristow’s walls; but he looked as though he needed a nice walking pace for a while.

“Finn.” She put a hand on his arm. “What was it?” It was as though his breathing was easier now that they’d left the city.

His face was serious as he spoke. “Someone tried to take the satchel. A thief.” He glanced at her as if to gauge the impact of his words. “We need to stay out of the cities. This book…”, he patted the satchel as if to reassure himself that the manuscript was still inside, “...can be dangerous to one who reads it. I don’t know what makes one person vulnerable and another able to safely see the text, but I’m not willing to risk spreading the demon’s influence. We can _not_ let the Gospels out of our possession. We’ll travel on until we reach Bath; inside the walls of a priory we won’t have to worry about theft.”

Rey nodded. It would be terrible for anyone else to meet the fate that had taken Brother Novenario. Neither she nor Finn had been driven mad by the book, but it had certainly changed both their lives forever, and she shuddered at the memory of the demon’s image staring back at her. “I understand. We’ll head straight for Bath.” She shrugged. “And if we must, we slept outdoors often enough on the Road.” She was glad to see the tightness in his shoulders relax as they drove.

It was an easy journey to Bath. The countryside here was beautiful. There was water everywhere, and so much green. All the kinds of tree that existed on God’s Earth must be here. They stopped to let Bastian have a rest and still came to Bath near twilight. Which was a very good thing; without the remaining light, they’d have missed the sights that met their eyes as they reached the priory. Finn smiled as he saw the abbey’s entrance, then laughed out loud. “How wonderful! They have made Jacob’s Ladder of stone!” Rey wasn’t sure what that meant, but the carvings certainly _were_ wonderful. Angels, dozens of them, lit on the outside of the priory’s entrance like a swarm of particularly beautiful bees.

Finn spotted her puzzled look and began to tell the story as they drove. Closer to the building, she could see that the angels were indeed climbing, industriously clambering up and down the ladders of stone to carry who knew what messages. There were eagles, and a crowned tree, and important-looking men, but what drew the eye were all the angels. It struck Rey that she must not be qualified to be a true angel; she couldn’t envision a way to climb down a ladder headfirst without serious injury. She said as much to Finn when he’d finished the story; he looked briefly scandalized before tilting his head to consider the problem, and as they reached the building they were both laughing.

...

They were greeted at the door by what was possibly the tallest, thinnest monk Rey had ever seen. She was reminded of the little brown insects in Seville, the ones that looked like little bundles of grass or sticks blowing across the road until they untangled themselves and began walking away, looking for all the world as though their “hands” were clasped in prayer.

...

“Good day, Brother Porter. I am Brother Finn. Brother Reymund and I were wondering if we might take advantage of lodgings for the night here in the priory.” The monk looked startled. He introduced himself as…”Brother William, oh my no, I’m not the porter, I’m the priory’s archivist, but, well, frankly, all the other brothers here are on the elderly side and inclined to nap of an afternoon, so I happen to be the only one awake, and what’s all this, then?” Finn, despairing of a break in the flow of words, had simply handed Brother William his letter of introduction.

Brother William gave the letter a cursory glance and handed it back to Finn. “Oh, Debre Damo? That’s an interesting coincidence, our king just had one of our finest scribes write the Gospels in Latin to send to your king...Prester John, isn’t it? Or one of his descendants…interesting lineage, that, I have a book somewhere…” Finn felt a trickle of cold sweat. It should have occurred to him, he thought, that anyone who might know the name of their scribe would also know about the book; the stolen and valuable book that he was at this moment carrying on his person. He desperately wanted to ask for the name, but it seemed the better part of discretion to stay silent, lest he be clapped in irons.

It seemed not to matter; Brother William had already moved on to another topic. As far as Finn could follow, it seemed to be a history of various other Williams involved in the founding of this abbey. “...And William Rufus; son of William the Conqueror, don’t you know, granted the city to John of Tours, a physician who _bought_ the entire abbey and its grounds, if you can imagine such a thing, or so William of Malmesbury wrote, I’ve got a copy of his work here somewhere…”

They walked through the priory as he spoke; Finn was intrigued by the mention of the famed historian. The priory seemed, to Finn’s eyes, to be worn and in disrepair; though the ceiling vaults that reminded him of the scallop shells of Compostela were still beautiful, and he envied the multitude of round windows that must make working in the scriptorium an unalloyed joy. As if directed by this thought, he realized Brother William was lamenting the leaks in the roof, “...it’s almost impossible to keep up with repairs and I live in fear that water will damage one of the manuscripts.” Finn believed that might have been the first time Brother William had taken a breath.

...

Rey was quick to take advantage of the faint slackening in this torrent of words. “Brother William, I beg your pardon, but we’ve come into possession of a book written by a Brother Leofric; he copied some of a story called Bee-Wolf that Brother Finn was very keen to see; do you have it here? He mentioned in his notes that you’d shown it to him.” She knew that was a great deal of the reason Finn had wanted to pass through this place, whether or not he was willing to admit it, and couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t already asked. A glance at Finn told her he was worried again; the hand atop his satchel told her why.

The thin, stooped brother brightened like an untrimmed wick at the question. “Oh, Heavens, yes, we have a fine collection of texts here, why I’m constantly at war with the architecture, you see...And, wait, you said he mentioned me in his books, in his notes, I’m in a BOOK? Oh my heavens. That’s marvelous. Yes, well, there’s _Beowulf_ , yes, of course, and a copy of the Gospels in English and the history of Bath Abbey since before the Conquest and the Wonders of the East, oh! That’s got bits about your home in it as well, I say, do you _really_ have problems with ants that are the size of dogs? I should think that would make outdoor dining problematic at best...well, would you like to see them? The texts, I mean not the ants?”

Finn lost a little of his worried look as he responded. “I...have never myself encountered any ants outside the size one would typically imagine in all the lands I’ve travelled to get here. That sounds alarming.” He accepted Brother William’s invitation with delight. They were soon conversing with their heads together over the manuscript. Rey took a seat by the room’s fireplace; it was chilly here to her, even approaching summer. She found herself drowsing as the two of them compared notes.

…

Brother William was delighted to see himself mentioned in Leofric’s volume; he exclaimed over the mention of his own name and the notes about transcription. He was extremely knowledgeable about the manuscript. Finn was relieved to find a like mind to whom he could direct his questions. “I have been trying to compare the text to English as it is currently spoken, as well as imagining how it would be translated in Latin, with which I am much more familiar, I’m afraid. The passage that has been giving me the most trouble in Brother Leofric’s excerpts is this one: _‘ĐA segæst ongan gledum spiwan’_. ”

The archivist’s face was alight with enthusiasm. “Of course! It is much discussed. Many scholars believe the best translation is ‘The dragon breathed fire’, but we see here the word _gæst_ , which creates some controversy. It’s not the more specific _dracan_ or _wyrm_ ; it’s often thought to be ‘guest’, which I suppose it could be but it seems more likely, given its roots, to refer to a ghost or a spirit. I myself would have rendered it as ‘The monster, or fiend, vomited forth flames’, but I have even heard another scholar say ‘The demon spat flames’...”

At that last sentence, it seemed to Finn that the light was dimming; not the sun’s light from outside, they were well past needing candlelight for the reading, but all the light in the room. The fire was shadowed as though clouds were passing over it, and it was as though the light of the candle Finn was holding were receding in front of him. He had time to look to Rey and saw her now bolt upright, transfixed, staring into the seemingly fading glow of the fireplace. Somewhere distant he could hear Brother William relating that the Beowulf story gave him the same feeling as his visit to Stonehenge, as though there were gates upon gates and he were peering into another place and time...Finn tried to call out to Rey, and found himself voiceless, bodiless; and elsewhere. His only comfort was that as he went, he found that she was with him. He couldn’t see or touch her, but he could feel her presence.

...

The stable was burning. Finn watched in horror. He could feel their third, their scribe, here with them, as though they saw through his eyes, and then again as though they stood close behind him and watched. Vision wavered and pulsed; was it the heat of the flames? Here at once it seemed a small blaze, easily managed; then a blink and a roar and the fire surged, devouring the stable, dropping chunks and beams of wood dripping embers as though they were a liquid. The stable. The stable was burning. It was all doomed, destroyed, nothing could be saved, but they had to try.

He had a moment to recognize the face framed in the conflagration. He’d seen it before. Where? At Compostela. In the Lady Chapel he’d seen their masked scribe in despair, holding a drawing in his arms as though he thought to comfort himself with its nearness. This man’s face had been smiling wryly as he gazed back at Finn from the parchment. Even frozen in his inked likeness, Finn had seen humor and stubbornness, kindness and determination in that face. There he was, surrounded by flames as he had been in the sketch but real and alive; Finn wanted to warn him as he stood tall and strong against the monster vomiting forth destruction, fighting to save, to protect, to preserve.

The monster. _The demon._ The realization of its presence was like a trickle of snowmelt in all the feverish heat. It was there lurking in the blaze, appearing and disappearing; until it reared up in triumph to sate its hunger and destroy its victim. Instinctively Finn tried to reach for his staff, to fight somehow. But he had nothing, could take no action; he couldn’t keep the scribe safe from the flames or stand between him and the demon. He needed them. Finn could feel the screams he couldn’t voice, the pleas to _leave him alone!_ ; he would have done anything to make them stop, to take that pain from him. Instead he watched alongside, helpless, as the man he and Rey were seeking walked slowly toward the inferno.

The horses, too, were screaming; terrified shrieks that wrung tears from his eyes as Finn bemoaned his bodiless state. He couldn’t help them either; he could only watch as the demon, clutching, took its prize. It enveloped the older man, dragging him backwards out of sight as the stable collapsed. Their scribe ran forward, moments too late, a cry of “No!” on his lips. Finn had a single glimpse of the despairing eyes behind the mask, looking back through choking smoke and cinders but seeing nothing; and there was only darkness, suddenly empty.

…

The stable was burning. Ben had to reach his father, he had to warn him before it happened again, for the first time, for the last time...it was all twisted together and the smoke was in his nose and his mouth and his chest and he couldn’t breathe and the horses were screaming, always screaming, still screaming, and he couldn’t go forward, it was his fault, all of it, the fire, the horses, his father, the demon...THE DEMON. It was there in the flames, it had always been there, Ben had granted it entrance, had brought it to their door and there it was, howling, swaying, _laughing_ as it reached out to bring his father’s death. And it would happen, it always happened, it was always happening; the destruction that Ben had wrought, the fiend that clung to him and consumed all that he touched.

He forced himself to walk _toward_ all of it, fighting the impulse to turn and run, to hide, to beg God to take this cup from him. The hair on his arms was beginning to scorch, the hem of his clothing to smolder; he could feel his hair stirring in the wind of that furnace blast; but inside he was frozen with dread. Maybe he could change it this time, this day, all the days, he could offer himself instead; he could let it have him, he could give it what it wanted and it wouldn’t hurt anyone else and the HORSES, they were still SCREAMING, and it was touching his father, grasping him by the shoulders, and the whole world ignited, and Ben tried to shout, to tell it to “Leave him alone!” but all that he could manage was “NO!” and then everything was on fire and the roof was falling and he was falling and his father was gone again and nothing had changed and then, awfully, blessedly, his eyes closed as he looked into the flames and he was gone himself.

...

The stable was burning. The blaze grew as Rey watched, twisting and dancing, blossoming over the roof and slithering across the beams of the stalls. They beheld it as one; she could see the bonfire that was once a stable as though she looked out of those dark eyes that needed her so much; but she could feel Finn’s heart break as he heard the hopeless, tearing shrieks of trapped horses. At the same time, somehow, she could see that tall, robed figure she knew so well, shaking with strain as though he might come apart as he forced himself to go _toward_ the doomed stable.

The flickers and jets of flame seemed to congregate as they watched, drawing together and gaining strength. Fire upon fire joined and grew, spiralling up to tower over the older man, a stranger, standing in the center of all of it, and with a jolt of ice amongst all the burning Rey recognized their foe. Where was her _sword_? It was all too familiar, the sinister, swirling, _swarming_ being of hellfire and smoke that tormented the man they must protect and that threatened them all. Rey could _feel_ his determination to reach the stable, to protect the man whose kind face filled his vision, to fight the demon weaponless and seemingly alone; and as they drew closer he reached out a hand, she reached out a hand, they all _reached_.

The demon, too, reached greedily with tongues of flame as though in a parody of an embrace. The screams of dying animals melded with the sudden roar of the creature and the rending crash of a falling beam; the smoky tendrils and grasping, searing claws encircled their quarry. Their scribe had just reached the stable door, flinching at the heat, hand outstretched. From three throats at once in panic the same voice, three voices, cried “NO!”, three pairs of eyes watched with dread as the demon’s prey disappeared. The scribe looked backward at them; no, _through_ them, eyes lost and hopeless behind his mask, there in the smoke and the disintegrating building; and then he was gone, winking out of existence like the snuffing of a candle, and there was only darkness where he had been.

…

Rey came back to herself in a rush of heat. She was back in Bath Priory, Brother William was still nattering away as though nothing at all had happened; and the comfortable coals in the fireplace surged in sudden appetite, erupting into full-fledged flame as though they’d been reminded that they were starving. Soot cascaded from the chimney and sparks alit on her sandals and the sleeves of her robe. Backing away from the fireplace, Rey swatted at the tiny charred spots to make sure they were all extinguished, and turned to see the candle in Finn’s hand flare to dazzling brilliance, sending tiny flickering motes in all directions. Some landed on Finn himself as he blinked back to awareness; and some of them landed on the book.

Brother William, who had evidently been so absorbed in his lecture on _Beowulf_ that he had noticed nothing unusual at all, could hardly have missed this; the parchment of the manuscript was beginning to catch. He gave a sudden, high-pitched yelp and began to beat at the flames with his bare hands. Finn, recovered enough to be alarmed, carefully set the candle down on a nearby windowsill and searched the room until he spotted the bucket of sand he knew must be there. He unceremoniously poured sand out over the table; _Beowulf_ , William, and all.

Once the immediate danger was past, Finn locked eyes with Rey and they both nodded, stomachs in knots. William was exclaiming over the scorched manuscript; “...we just can’t, you see, the books, we can’t have these kinds of hazards, the roof is bad enough, but a FIRE, that could have destroyed them all, our _history_ , our legacy, this _story_ , the candle, I should have waited until daylight and let you see it in the sun and now just LOOK at it…”, he lamented as he wrung his hands together. He picked up the book and began tenderly brushing the sand from its pages, heedless of his burned fingers.

Finn interjected, “Brother William, my humblest apologies, I am so sorry there was any danger to a manuscript, especially one as precious as this; but Brother Reymund and I have just realized that we must go, we have other obligations, you see, and we have presumed far too much upon your generous hospitality. So here we will leave you; it is necessary that we be on our way, eternal thanks for allowing me this privilege. Your hands are not badly injured? May I see them? Yes, a mild burn, I believe, be sure to let your infirmarian have a look at it. Many thanks.”

As he spoke, Finn indicated the door with a tilt of his head. Rey nodded, made sure they had everything they’d brought inside with them, and they both headed rapidly for the front entrance. Brother William trailed behind them in confusion, still bemoaning the damage to the book; “Yes, er, well, I suppose you must go, but you haven’t eaten or slept, but if you have remembered somewhere you must be, then there’s no getting round it, so sorry, sure you are both very lovely people, really did want to show you more and the story is so FASCINATING but oh my no, YEARS it’s been here and never a hint of danger from fire and now, well, you can see how I...yes, goodbye, then, yes?” He continued brushing sand from the pages as they went. “Yes, all right then, safe journey and all that that implies, delightful to have met you, Go with God, and all of that sort of thing…” He was still talking as the door closed behind them.

…

Rey gave him an anxious look as they went to retrieve Bastian and Octavius from the stables. “What happened just now? It wasn’t like before. We couldn’t help him. We should have been able to help him, but all we could do was watch!”

Finn shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re right, this felt different than the other times we’ve been in contact with him. Does that mean the demon is winning? I don’t know.”

Rey’s jaw was firm, her face determined. “I know we’re not making any more stops. We sleep outdoors, only as much as we really need, we eat while we’re walking. The sooner we can get to him, the better. Can...do you feel like there’s something wrong? Something missing?” Suddenly her mouth twisted with fear, her chin quivered, and a tear slid down one cheek. “Do you think he’s...was it a real fire? Was it just the demon, that’s bad enough, but who was that other man? You don’t think he’s...are we too late?” Tears splashed onto the dust of the road.

Finn gathered her into his arms, heedless of who might be watching them. “I have hope. We have to believe that we have been called for a reason; that he would not be taken from us just as we have the chance to help him. At the very least, we must make certain that no one else falls under the demon’s sway, that his work is not a danger to others. We’ve come all this way; we’ll learn his fate, and our own.”

Rey nodded, swiping a sleeve across her face and leaving a streak of soot in its place. Her face was determined once again. “To Canterbury, then; and God help anyone or anything that gets in our way.” Finn pitied anyone who tried.

…

The tack shed was burning. A terrified, stammering novice came to give him the news a little after twilight. Luke hurried through the abbey’s corridors and through one of the outer doors near the stables. He could see as he neared the commotion that it wasn’t bad; Brother Daniel, the stable-master, and Brother Dismus, the guest master, were already organizing the brothers to bring buckets of water and keep the fire from reaching the stables. They might have to replace some of the tack, the shed would need repairs, and the abbey would be needing a wainwright to replace their wagon; but the horses would be safe.

He’d already sent novices scattering to the four points of the compass to make sure no one was missing. They’d returned to tell him that every one was accounted for except Brother Benedictus. That news sent threads of fear and resentment curling in equal measure through his belly. Of course he was missing. That’s how it had gone the first time, too. Luke had been off searching for his missing nephew, absent when he was meant to be at prayers. He’d searched half the estate when the news of that fire had reached him. He hadn’t thought to look in the stables.

By the time he’d made it back, running all the way, panting for breath, it was all over. His brother-in-law, his beloved friend, was dead; killed in a fire his own son had started. And Luke hadn’t been there to help, hadn’t been there to share the danger and, if necessary, the death. If he’d had a better care for Ben’s soul, the boy would have been at prayer, none of it would have happened, and his sister wouldn’t have been widowed. And now? There was a danger of fire again, and here he was wondering where Benedictus had gone instead of helping to fight the flames. Here he was, paralyzed by guilt and shame, anger and memory, and not a little fear; watching from the shadows instead of leading in the light.

 

Luke knew he’d been arrogant to think that he’d made a decision to teach, to bring boys to the love and service of the Lord, and everything else including his nephew would just have to fall in line. With a talent like his, how could he fail to see that it was God’s gift and should be put to use in devotion to God? But Luke hadn’t been enough; hadn’t been able to make him understand, and Ben’s rebellion against his vocation had led to disaster. Anger twisted through him. Ben had been arrogant too, thinking he could do just as he pleased; and it had cost his father his life. It was all about control. He could never lose control of himself, or of Ben, again. That was a shadow that hung over them both.

As if summoned by the thought, Ben himself appeared at the edge of the circle of light cast by the flames. He was carrying a bucket full of water, but he hadn’t joined the line of those passing buckets to the shed. He stumbled toward the buildings, hardly seeming to know where he was. It was surprising to see him this close; Ben never went near the horses, and he was terrified of fire. Luke’s stomach churned with a mixture of concern and bitterness. Poisons of the past were something he understood all too well.

He should go to the boy; Ben was under his care, body, mind and soul. The courage it must have taken to come and try to help was impressive; but Luke was too afraid, too ashamed, to reach out with comfort. There was too much anger between them for him to afford the kind of solace Ben needed. And he was jealous of that courage. His nephew had managed what he himself had not; and Luke was thoroughly disgusted with himself. This weakness could not be tolerated. A shrill neigh split the air; that would be Luke’s own stallion in his separated stall; resentful of the chaos and perhaps fearful of the fire.

A moan of anguish drew his attention back to his nephew’s face; he’d been walking toward the stables, not the shed. He stopped dead a few feet from the building, swaying as he stood. Luke could see even from where he was that Ben’s face was whiter than a Templar’s surcoat, drained with shock, and his eyes were like dark, bruised pits in their sockets. The stable was not in danger; but whatever Ben was seeing, it wasn’t what was happening here and now. Luke thought he had a good idea what it was; the aftermath of that same day was burning behind his own eyes.

The bucket began to tremble in Ben’s hands, sloshing water over the side as he took one step, then another, toward the stable. Luke was on the point of going to him when the line of monks began to drift apart; it seemed the fire had been extinguished. Brother Dismus stepped away from the rest and went to stand in front of Ben, who didn’t appear to see him. Luke was shamefully glad of the reprieve. He’d been the one to care for Hannon’s body; to see him made as whole as he could be and sewn into his shroud. That image, and the look on his sister’s face as they told her, even though she’d just known, made it hard to breathe.

Brother Dismus waved a hand in front of Ben’s eyes; there was no reaction. “Brother Benedictus? The fire is out; the stables are safe. Are you well?” Brow furrowed with concern, he next reached out to gently shake Ben’s shoulder. Ben flinched; he slowly turned his head and focused his eyes on Dismus. In a voice that sounded eerily like the withdrawn twelve-year-old who’d arrived at the Abbey a dozen years gone, he said, “The flames have taken him. He’s dead.” With that, Ben’s eyes rolled back in his head; and despite Dismus’ best efforts to prevent it, he hit the ground in a boneless heap, as though felled by an invisible blow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Luke, I've come to understand, is one of the most challenging parts of this. It was easy to imagine from the beginning that Ben would sometimes be difficult (isn't he, though?). Finn and Rey are a delight; they almost do the work themselves. But Luke continues to surprise me.
> 
> MANUSCRIPT NOTE
> 
> The only thing to say in this chapter is that there's a little bit of an inside joke having to do with the manuscript catching fire. In the 17th century the Beowulf manuscript was owned by Sir Robert Cotton, and in 1701, 70 years after he died, his manuscript Library, which was very substantial, was gifted to the English nation. 
> 
> It was kept in Ashburnham House, an unfortunately named building the caught fire in 1731 destroying some of the collection and damaging much more of it. The Beowulf manuscript was burned around the edges, and in the 19th century conservators put the parchment pages in paper frames. Our little accident with the candle is an allusion to that fire.
> 
> The Beowulf manuscript, along with the rest of Cotton's collection, is now held in the British Library.


	13. Flamma et Flumen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flame and the Flood: In which Abbot Luke gets the dressing-down he so richly deserves. In which our Brother Benedictus gives up on help.  
> In which our Brother Finn is in peril. And in which our trio are together at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more Brother Lorcan appears, the more we enjoy him, so we hope you do too. Brother Benedictus isn't nearly as alone as he imagines himself to be. But sometimes pushing away the help in front of you is part of wrestling with your demons. A family trait, it would seem. "I give myself very good advice, But I very seldom follow it, That explains the trouble that I'm always in..." Alice and Ben could have some interesting conversations. They've both seen some things. Bonus music recommendation: I can't say it enough, it's been in my head almost constantly while writing, just try putting on Fleurie's "Breathe" and give it a listen while you read. Really. There's a whole playlist; but for this chapter...yeah.

“ _In ainm Dé!_ What have you done to the boy?!” There had been a fire. Brother Lorcan had been ready; they’d told him it was near to the stables, and a stable was the most vulnerable of buildings. He’d had burn remedies near to hand, sleeping draughts for surcease from pain, he’d prepared for wounds and broken bones and even a _spongia somnifera_ ; to bring the peace of sleep if surgery was required. What he hadn’t anticipated was that Brother Benedictus would be carried into the infirmarium with not a mark on him, utterly insensible and pale as moonlight.

Brother Daniel threw up his hands. “Nothing, God witness! He collapsed all on his own; we’ve merely brought him to you.”

Lorcan looked at Dismus. “It was the fire.” Brother Dismus held up a hand to forestall the next question. “No, he wasn’t injured. But you and I both know what he was like when he came here. Daniel, you wouldn’t have seen as much of him, since he avoids horses like plague; but he was a guest at first and under my care, and he could hardly stand to be near a candle. He didn’t see me standing in front of him, Lorcan, and the _sound_ of him. Lost and wandering while he was right here.” Dismus’ face was worried; the memory of that boy was in his eyes. “Can you help?” He glanced at Benedictus; feet dangling well past the end of the infirmarium cot, he still reminded both of them of that frightened child.

Lorcan was already considering what remedies might be effective here. “I can only try, with God’s grace. The mind and spirit present an entirely different kind of challenge.” He held a hand to Ben’s brow; sweat streaked his face and soaked his hair, but he was cold to the touch. Best to warm him, then, and chafe the hands and feet. Lorcan barely noticed Daniel and Dismus telling him they needed to assess the damage from the fire and taking their leave. A different kind of challenge indeed. This one had always been a challenge.

It wasn’t long before young Benedictus showed signs of waking. He twitched and trembled, hands twisting at the blanket that Lorcan had drawn over him. Closer examination showed that the beat of his heart was fluttering like that of a trapped bird. He muttered indistinctly as he began to wake, something about the flames winning; and, quite clearly: ‘Where are you?” Candle in hand, Lorcan leaned closer, the better to hear; what a man said when he was not quite himself was often revealing.

Benedictus opened his eyes just as the door of the infirmarium opened, causing the flame of the candle to twist and flare. Eyes wide, he scrambled backward, arms pinwheeling, and Lorcan suddenly found himself backhanded into the opposite wall as one of those flailing arms caught him across the face. “ _Gabh transna ort fhéin!_ ” The words escaped his lips before he could quite help himself. Lorcan wasn’t proud of that. That kind of talk belonged back in his somewhat less Godly youth. He was, however, very proud that he’d managed to hold onto the candle.

Shaking his head to clear it, he carefully set the candle down behind him, out of sight of poor Ben, who had backed himself across the cot into the corner where the infirmarium walls met, arms outstretched in defense against nothing. That wouldn’t do. He might endanger himself, or another. “Brother Benedictus?” The query produced no response, nor indeed any sign that he had heard. “Benedictus?” No answer. Lorcan reached out, more hesitantly than he cared to admit, and laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“BEN.”

The name by which he’d been known when he arrived here as a boy seemed to gain his attention. “I...the fire, I…”, he managed.

Lorcan nodded. “I know. Here. Drink this. It will help.” Ben drank obediently enough, tears slipping unnoticed down his face. The draught was powerful. Henbane, hemlock, and opium were nothing to be trifled with, even in tiny amounts and mixed with beer; but he’d measured them with great care. A few hours’ rest was exactly what was needed here. Lorcan spared a moment to glance at the door, wondering who had opened it. He saw young Timothy, staring open-mouthed at them both. A finger to his lips, after a pause, produced a nod from the lad, and Lorcan turned back to his patient in time to catch the cup as it fell from his fingers. They eased him back properly onto the cot together.

Timothy was almost as pale as Brother Benedictus. “What’s the matter with him? He _struck_ you, Brother Lorcan. Are you all right? I...found out about the fire, and then they said Brother Benedictus was in the infirmary and I came to see if he was all right because he was kind to me and I…” He clamped his mouth shut in mid-sentence. Interesting. “Is he injured?” He looked Benedictus over with an anxious expression.

Lorcan came to a quick decision. “Let’s see. I’ll answer those out of order. Brother Benedictus is not injured, not a physical one you can see, at any rate. He did strike me, but I don’t believe he knew what he was doing. I, for my own part, will be perfectly well.” He ran his tongue along his teeth, wincing when he tasted blood. He wasn’t nearly as young as he’d been the last time someone hit him in the face.

“As to what’s the matter with him...there was a fire, at the house where Brother Benedictus lived when he was not much older than you. His father was killed in the blaze. The rest of that story is his tale to tell, not mine.” That short summary seemed to cause the lad no small amount of distress. Best to wait and see why that might be. “Now. Would you like to stay and watch with me?” Timothy nodded as though pulled by strings. “Very well. We shall watch over Benedictus together, then.” Lorcan pulled two of the room’s chairs over by the cot and they sat side by side.

It was in the dark hours before dawn and they were drowsing, Lorcan and Timothy both, when the knock came. Lorcan knew who it would be. Abbot Luke had come to see his nephew in the dark hours; when no one would see his weakness, not even himself. Lorcan rose painfully from the chair (unfortunately, he was exactly as old as he’d been last time he’d slept in a chair) and slipped out into the corridor.

Luke looked for all the world like a schoolboy called to account to his tutor. Lorcan expected him to start scuffing his feet and picking at his fingernails at any moment. Luke cast a wary eye at the door, then drew his authority around him like a blanket.. “How is Brother Benedictus?”

Lorcan was having none of that. “Your nephew is sleeping. I had to give him something to help. He hardly knew where he was. Or when.”

Luke nodded. He probably thought his expression was neutral. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of the bruise no doubt darkening across Lorcan’s jaw. “Did he do that?”

No, he was not having any of that either. Lorcan nodded, then held up a finger to forestall the next sentence. “Out of his mind with fear at the sight of a candle in a draught...yes. He's not to blame. I want that understood. No penance is to be given. I think he’s had enough, don’t you?”

Many things crossed Luke’s expression. Lorcan thought he saw concern, fear, anger, and...yes, shame. Good. It was a moment before Luke spoke. “Perhaps it’s best I don’t disturb him. Is...will he recover?” He glanced at the door again.

Anger was building in Lorcan, the kind of anger he’d tried to leave behind when he chose this life. “Why? Are you worried his work will suffer?” He shook his head at Luke’s hesitancy.

Luke’s eyes widened. “No, that's not what I meant. I was there, I saw him fall. But I couldn't, I didn't go to him. I was afraid.” Yes, that was definitely shame. As it should be.

And that was enough, indeed, far too much of that. Lorcan discarded any sense that he was speaking to his abbot and spiritual father; his old friend needed a dressing-down, and Lorcan was the only one likely to be able to give it to him. “And he was not? If it had been any other man here, would you have gone to them in their need? Why should you do less for your sister's son?” Luke cast his gaze down, unwilling to meet Lorcan’s eyes with his own.

Lorcan searched his friend’s face, hoping against hope that his words would have an impact. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, and it wasn’t likely to be the last. Obstinate, all of them, those Walkers. Luke had left the name, but God knew he’d kept the stubbornness. “I know you too well, old friend; you talk to me more than your own confessor. And you need to consider how to handle Benedictus; Ben! Soul, mind and heart.” Luke flinched at the sound of his nephew’s childhood name.

Lorcan pressed forward; he could only hope that God would be good enough to give him the right words, even though he was prone, he knew, to using all the wrong ones. Luke might not know what an _anamchara_ was, but Lorcan was his soul-friend all the same.

“He has talent, Luke, God knows, and you're envious; any man would be, imagining what you might do with it. He needs to know that he has some value to you that doesn't depend on how he can glorify God with a quill.” Lorcan paused. The next question was important. “Does he?”

Luke’s head snapped back up, and his eyes were angry as he faced Lorcan. “Of COURSE he does! I have cared for him since he was twelve years old, and he’s my own flesh and blood!”

Lorcan had to press; Luke wasn’t angry enough yet. “Have you? Cared for him, truly? He doesn't need his abbot, he needs his uncle. And yet you treat him as though he were a stranger of questionable faith. He's troubled, certainly, and that frightens you. You're the closest thing to a father he has left, and you can hardly even look at the boy! He needs you to see him, just him, without seeing his father's death. Have you ever told him that he's forgiven, that his penance is over? Make no mistake, he's still trying to atone, every day.”

Luke’s face held a strange mixture of rage, fright, and threatening tears. Finally. Lorcan arrowed in, because the next part was something Luke badly needed to hear. “Or are you angry that he had the courage to face what he fears and you did not? Lost in nightmare, and where were you? Why aren’t you in that room right now, at his side?”

Luke bowed his head in open acknowledgement, and contrition, at last. “...I was watching. I was just watching. And I can't.. I’ll try, when he wakes. He won’t want to see me just now. I’m only another reminder of that day.” When he looked at Lorcan again, Luke could only shake his head, tears running unheeded down his face. They were not normally much alike, but he looked remarkably like Ben at that moment. Luke turned on his heel and began walking back down the corridor.

Lorcan threw his hands in the air. “To be sure, go and scourge yourself. Just be sure you're well enough for the penance *I'm* going to give you.” He knew he was the only one Luke trusted enough to assign him a penance beyond the pain he insisted on inflicting on himself. Blind spots and mixed feelings he might have, but Luke was all too aware of his own failings and weaknesses, and labored under the misapprehension that adding physical pain would improve him.

And that, as much as Lorcan loved his friend and knew him to be a good man and a fine abbot, was another source of disagreement between them. “The lash may purify the soul, I'm skeptical myself that God wants us to mar his work...”

The last, in pure burning frustration, was yelled down the hall after Luke's slumped, retreating form. “..but it's not going to make you any WISER!” And he was back to the wrong words. Well. Perhaps God had had enough of inspiring him for now. Lorcan would just have to be sufficient unto the day on his own. Well, not entirely on his own; never. _Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine._ Under the shelter of each other, people survive.

…

Ben came back slowly to awareness, surfacing through a sea of flames. He knew first that he was whole; unburned and unbroken. He came to understand that he was not at home, his first home, and he was no longer twelve. All of that had happened long ago. He knew that. He’d forgotten, because of the fire. THE FIRE. He sat abruptly upright and spent a few seconds wondering where on earth he might be. There was a cot, and a blanket; he’d been...sleeping? And there on a chair drawn up near the cot was…”Timothy?” Wait. Shelves of dried herbs, medical instruments…”This is the infirmarium, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”

The boy was already moving, a hand on Ben’s arm. “Brother Benedictus! You’re awake. Sit still; Brother Lorcan said not too fast, what he gave you was strong, he said. Are you...are you better?” There were no flames here. Just the one candle, burning low and carefully set in its holder on a shelf. That would be all right.

Better than what?, Ben wondered. He blinked stupidly at the hand on his arm; it seemed to be taking longer than usual for his mind to be fully awake. “I’m...I don’t know. I’m well, I think.” What was the last thing he’d known for certain? He’d been walking, after the best light for the work was gone; thinking the breeze outdoors might be good for him, and then he’d heard shouting and he’d gone to get a bucket of water, why? Because of the FIRE. “There was a...the stables. You work in the stables. They were…”

Timothy interrupted, shaking his head. “It wasn’t the stables. The horses are safe. No one was injured. You need to know that, don’t you? It was the tack shed. I…” His face crumpled and he began to weep. “I wasn’t hiding from prayers, I _wasn’t_. You told me I shouldn’t do that, that it never ended well, and I _wasn’t_.” Ben was very confused. He had said that. But what did that have to do with anything?

Timothy continued, voice hitching as he cried, hardly pausing to breathe. “Only I...there was a foal watch. Brother Daniel, he told me one of the mares was ready to foal, and I’ve never _seen_ a foal born and I wanted so much to be there when it happened, I wanted to _help_ and so I went to the tack shed, it was between prayers and it wasn’t quite time for bed yet, it wasn’t.” There was nowhere for Ben to speak, even had he known what to say.

The words spilled out, faster and faster as Timothy spoke, tumbling over each other, punctuated here and there by a sniff or a hiccup. “And I wanted to be ready, so I took the book on caring for horses, on husbandry, that Brother Daniel let me borrow, he said I could, but it was almost dark so I took a candle and I _tried_ to be careful but then the bell rang and it was for the novices, for us to go to bed.”

Sobs followed each other in rapid succession; it was harder to understand him now. Ben managed; he had half a lifetime’s fluency in weeping. “Brother Peter doesn’t like it when we’re late and he has to go looking for one of us so I got the book and I went and I was going to come back as soon as I could to see if they were still waiting for the foal to drop and I FORGOT THE CANDLE and it was MY FAULT, mine, and they could have burned, the horses, even the foal, and then I heard you were here and you were so strange and I didn’t know about the fire, your fire, and it hurt you and I’m SO SORRY!” He threw his arms around Ben, face buried against his chest.

Ben was bewildered. He sorted back through the flood of words and picked the sense out of them. Oh. Timothy had started the fire. OH. He raised a hand and patted the child awkwardly on the back; he hadn’t the faintest idea how one comforted a child. But...he _did_ know something about mistakes. “Timothy.”

The novice raised his head, leaving a rather large damp spot on the front of Ben’s robe. What could Ben say? “It’s all right. I’m...safe; and so is everyone else, that’s what you said, yes?” Timothy nodded, drawing a sleeve across his face. “Listen. You made a mistake. Everyone does. I did. You said...” He had to grit his teeth to get past this part. “... _my fire_. So you know. But you were trying to do what you were told to do.”

Timothy was shaking his head. Ben went on, searching for words; he so rarely had to go looking for words, they were always just there. “You’re a child, you’re supposed to make mistakes. You’re meant to learn from them. You’ll make more mistakes, before you’re grown. That’s all right too. You just have to try as hard as you can not to repeat them, and not...and try as best you can not to hurt anyone.”

Timothy nodded, face still twisted in sorrow. What had he learned about mistakes, Ben thought, that might be of some help here? “And Timothy? I forgive you.” And let out his breath in a *whuff* as the boy’s head hit his chest again. The crying sounded… _cleaner_ somehow. Maybe those were the right words. At a loss, he rested a hand atop Timothy’s head. There was an indistinct shout from the corridor outside the door, and a few moments later Brother Lorcan came into the room.

…

When Lorcan stepped back into the infirmarium, Benedictus looked at him over young Timothy’s mop of dark hair. He could see that Ben was back behind his own eyes again, though they were filled, as they so often were, with wariness and pain. And whatever had been eating at Timothy seemed to have been dealt with as well.

Benedictus pushed the boy gently back to arms’ length. “Timothy. Before you go back to your bed, why don’t you go and see if that foal’s been born yet? Tell Brother Daniel and Brother Dismus that I sent you. And...be sure to tell them what you told me. All of it. Ask them to help you so that you don’t make that mistake again.” Timothy looked apprehensive. “It’ll be all right. It’s not the worst mistake they’ve ever heard. Go on.” Timothy looked at Lorcan himself; he nodded his approval and the boy grinned suddenly, and went pelting out the door.

There was the ghost of a smile from Benedictus. Well and good. Lorcan examined him closely, remembering too late how his face must look once he’d stepped closer to the light of the candle. There was a hissing intake of breath, and Ben’s face looked stricken as he asked, “Did I do that? I did that, didn’t I? Another fire, someone else hurt. I can’t seem to stop repeating mistakes.” He flung the blanket aside and stood.

Lorcan wasn’t surprised to see Ben sway and lean against the wall; he guessed the effects of the draught hadn’t entirely dissipated. He opened his mouth to say that there was no blame to be laid, but Ben straightened and edged past, giving him a wide berth and no chance to speak. “I...I’m sorry. Thank you for your care, Brother.” Lorcan was left standing with his mouth still open as the door closed behind Brother Benedictus. He closed it, and shook his head. Under the shelter of each other, indeed. Ben had better find someone to trust soon if he was going to survive.

…

The fire was growing stronger. It was as if the demon’s triumph in Ben’s mind had given it power, the memory of his costly mistake feeding its strength. And he’d been lucky it had only been bruises, this time. The sight of his handiwork had sickened him. This weakness in him, this inability to move forward and learn from his past; was that why his guardians hadn’t been with him? Was even Heaven disgusted with him now? Ben was beginning to feel like a monster. It was just as well. He was a danger to everyone. Better he strive alone, then no one would be hurt; angel, warrior, or a brother just trying to be of help. He’d be damned if he would seek help and open another, like his uncle, or even little Timothy, to this kind of torment. He would fight the demon as he was best able, inside, where he could cause no one else pain. That way, if he lost, he would lose alone. The flames in his mind roared agreement.

…

Someone had said there was a town near here. Rey thought they’d said Guildford. She was beginning to lose track of where they were. England was still beautiful, and still green; but they’d barely slept since they’d left Bath, and they were both anxious to know whether hope still lay at the end of their travels. Neither of them had had any sense of the man they sought since the fire; no vision, or feeling, just something missing and dreadfully wrong. She knew Finn blamed himself for the delay, for wanting to indulge his love of books and writing; that he worried they’d left things too late. So she’d tried to make jokes, to encourage him, anything to make him feel better. She’d taken to dropping Octavius in his lap whenever they weren’t moving, which wasn’t often.

They’d seen the spire of Salisbury’s cathedral towering over the landscape as they passed by the town. Finn’s jaw had firmed, and he’d directed Bastian away from the road through town and around the bustle and flow of traffic back into the emptier countryside as soon as he could. Rey knew a cathedral like that, with its glorious architecture soaring toward Heaven, should be irresistible to Finn, even aside from the manuscripts that no doubt waited for his eager eyes under its roof. She thought she’d heard him mutter something about “Bishop Osmund’s own scriptorium”; but he didn’t stop. And she agreed with him. Whatever they found at the end of this road, they would not stop again, except for the barest of rest, until they got there. But she mourned the spark of passion in his eyes.

It was raining. It had been raining, with a few brief pauses, since halfway between Bath and Salisbury. Winchester they’d known by its cathedral, too, as they passed through; rising out of the rain and mist like the great sea-beast, the whale, that had breached the sea’s surface beside their ship. This driving rain certainly didn’t carry the shock and danger of the storm they’d survived on the _Malak_ ; but aside from that fateful day, Rey thought perhaps she’d been drier at sea. So many of the folk here had told them about the famous pilgrim road to Canterbury that they’d decided to follow it; Rey wondered if it was the wettest pilgrimage route in the world.

Whenever the rain stopped, they took the opportunity to doze in the cart. And that presented its own interesting new experience. It wasn’t so much that Rey disliked having the two of them in that small space; it was that she found she enjoyed it very much. Finn tended to begin their short stops for rest pressed into the opposite side of the cart’s space; but she’d awakened a few times to find him beside her, one of his beautiful hands flung carelessly over her shoulder or hip, smiling as he slept. He tended to sleep more heavily than she did; she found his warmth beside her welcome, and she wouldn’t have woken him for the world. But soon enough worry woke him for her, that or the rain again; and they were back on their way.

Yes. This was definitely Guildford. _That_ was definitely a castle; a squat, muscled sort of building built to repel invaders, an entirely different animal than the cathedral spires that were always striving to draw the eyes to Heaven. This one, she thought, was meant to draw the attention to exactly how likely you were to die trying to take it. As though it were leaning over the town, setting its shoulders, asking enemies “Are you certain this is a prize you can win?” She shook her head. She was being fanciful. Better to concentrate on getting Bastian and the cart across this bridge.

Rey gave the river a worried look. So that’s where all the rain had gone. She supposed the arches of the bridge were graceful, but how would she know? She couldn’t see them. They’d mostly disappeared under the sheer, rushing mass of water. The top of the bridge, the roadway, seemed safe enough, if a bit slippery for her taste. Rey looked over at Finn. He didn’t look happy. That was hardly surprising. They might not be at sea, but this was still a LOT of water. She should at least try to… “Finn? Should we wait until it stops raining? I don’t like the look of all this.”

His face was grim. Rey didn’t like that at all. That wasn’t her Finn. “No. The flood hasn’t reached the top of the bridge. If we wait, we might not be able to cross at all.” He gritted his teeth. “And we shouldn’t stop. I...can’t stop.” He looked miserable, but determined. The impulse was impossible to ignore; she didn’t even try. Rey wrapped her arms around him. They stood together for a few heartbeats, looking at the water and the stone span of the bridge. It looked...fragile. She _felt_ fragile.

They both walked beside Bastian, to encourage and guide him. He snorted nervously as his hooves met the rain-slicked stone, but moved forward obediently enough as they matched his pace. A sharp bark got their attention; Octavius had already run all the way across and was dancing impatiently in place on the far bank. She and Finn shared a smile just watching him. Octavius was irrepressible.

Finn laughed. “I believe we have our orders. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.” Rey nodded, and they continued across the river. It was easier than they’d thought; the wheels of the cart wavered and skidded a few times, just a bit; but donkeys are sure-footed on stone, and Bastian rose to the occasion. It wasn’t until they reached the cobbles and grass on the other side that it happened.

Rey wasn’t sure exactly what “it” was. Had one of the cobbles been more soaked, and rounded, than the rest? Had he slipped on the grass that lay on the verge where bridge met bank? Was their faithful Bastian just tired, pushed too hard as they raced toward their goal? All she knew was that the donkey lurched sidelong in his harness, away from her and into Finn. Finn stumbled onto the wet grass, reached a hand out toward her...and he was gone. She heard him call “Rey!”, the sound of a splash, and then nothing.

There was a fencepost. Thank God. She tied Bastian’s reins to it and went racing down the bank as quickly as she could. The footing wasn’t much better over here. Why did that matter? Where was he. She cursed herself for never learning to swim. Why couldn’t she swim?!? Where WAS he? “FINN! Where are you? FINN!” She should have insisted they wait. Rey had known he feared this, exactly this. And she’d given in to his worry about what they’d find at Canterbury, shared it, and let this happen. “FINN!” Was that a shape, darker than the darkness of the water? Or were her eyes showing her what she wanted to see? What could she do, if it was? If she went in she’d sink but if she didn’t he’d be GONE, as they feared the scribe might be gone and she would be alone and she would be NO ONE again, a ghost in human shape, and no one would see her.

Rey was still frantically searching the water, eyes darting from one seething section of river to another as her thoughts twisted and circled inside her and despair began to creep along the edges of her heart. THERE. That _was_ a shape. And a hand. Octavius pointed his nose at the hand and sleeve they could now see caught in the current and tumbling past them out of sight, and _howled_. She would have to go into the water. There was no helping it. Rey kicked off her sandals and continued running downstream, only to see a pale-and-golden shape arc gracefully out into the water.

She reached the spot where she’d watched it slip into the river, only to see Finn. There he was. Her heart leapt; then sank to see him so still. Pulling him up onto the riverbank with apparent ease was a stranger; a woman, pale as milk, golden hair darkened with river water. She frowned at Finn, rolled him over onto his belly, and thumped him expertly between the shoulder-blades. After a few carefully calculated blows, he stirred, coughed, ejected a shocking quantity of the River Wey onto the stones and grass of the bank, and was still again.

Rey was frozen in place, faint and speechless with relief. Octavius padded over to Finn and began licking his face. The woman gave his ears a scratch as she spoke. “Well, hello there. Was he out in this with you all alone?” Rey must have made a sound, she couldn’t have said what, but the woman’s head turned to regard her. “Oh. There’s another one. Did you lose something?” She smiled. “Don’t look so frightened. He’ll be fine, now that we’ve got the water out of him; though I’d be surprised if he hadn’t given himself a nice knock to the head on the way in. Have you lost your tongue, then?”  
The woman stood. And continued standing after any reasonable person would have been finished. Rey could only gape at her; this was possibly the tallest person she’d ever seen, and even soaked and spattered here and there with river mud she was utterly magnificent. Eventually she realized that the woman was holding out a hand. “I’m Phasma. I know...my mother was prone to seeing ghosts while she was carrying me, I’m told.” Rey hastily shook it. Finally able to move again, she couldn’t seem to _stop_ talking as she sank down on the bank next to Finn.

“That’s Finn. Brother Finn. And I’m Brother Reymund.” The woman tilted her head at the name, but said nothing. “And...and thank you. How did you...is he really going to be all right? How did you DO that? I didn’t like the idea of crossing the bridge in this, but we have somewhere to be and I thought it would be all right but Bastian, he slipped, and he crashed into Finn, and I had to hold on to the harness or Bastian would’ve gone in too, cart and all, and Finn was just GONE!” She put a hand on Finn’s shoulder, turning him to face her where he lay on the grass, and surprised herself by bursting into tears.

She felt a hand on her arm. The woman, Phasma, she’d said, gave her a sympathetic look. “Look at you, you’re just a child, really, aren’t you? Yes, I’m certain. I know this river, flood and drought. The floods bring the fish up onto the banks, you see; they hide behind the boulders and you can catch your fill. Not a thing you want to try unless you can swim, though. I take it you can’t, and neither can he? Right. But I’ve fished enough of the local folk out of this same stretch of river to know when someone’s drowned and when they’re saved. See? He’s stirring already.” There was a wet-sounding cough, and Finn opened his eyes.

Octavius gave his face a thorough washing as Rey threw her arms around Finn’s neck and spoke into his shoulder. “I thought I’d lost you! We should have waited. But we couldn’t because he...but we should have. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. But she did.” Rey pulled back to wave a hand at Finn’s savior.

Phasma was watching all of this with apparent interest and a raised eyebrow. “I can’t imagine what could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait until the end of the rain, but it might be best if you stop for the night. I know a place.” She smiled, and they both moved to help Finn as he struggled to sit.

His voice sounded as though it hurt to speak. “No. Thank you, but no. We need to be on our way. We’ll have to hope the rain will stop soon, and that this is the worst of it between here and Canterbury. But I am grateful for your aid…?” He managed to sound courteous, though he looked as though he ought to be hung over a washline to dry.

“Phasma.” Standing again, she reached down a hand and pulled Finn easily to his feet. He seemed startled to find himself face to face with the laces of her bodice before politely angling upward to her face. She searched his face in turn, and seemed satisfied with whatever she saw. “I see. If you’re bound and determined to be foolish, I wish you luck. I won’t insist; but try to take it slowly, you’ve both had quite a day, haven’t you? Whatever you’re chasing must be important. Or whoever. I’ve got a mess of fish to get back while they’re still good enough to eat.” She looked Finn up and down again. “I hope what you find is worth the risk; take better care with yourself, so you can find out as well. Safe journey from here.” She began striding down the bank as Rey draped Finn’s arm over her shoulder. Over her own shoulder she called “Try to hang on to him, girl. He seems worth the trouble.” A laugh trailed behind her as she went.

Rey didn’t think Finn had noticed the “girl”. She shook her head. Phasma was right; but how was she to know what to do when they both needed her, Finn and the scribe?

Once out of Guildford, there was nothing in their way. In fact, once the rain had stopped, it was some of the most beautiful country Rey had ever seen; rolling, wooded hills splashed here and there with colorful blooms. Rey made Finn ride in the cart and rest for some of the trip, as best he could while it was moving; once he felt a bit better, he insisted on returning the favor.

They were passing an especially lovely gathering of purple blossoms that made them both smile in memory, when Finn suddenly started and reached for his satchel.

“What is it? Are you all right?” Rey had no idea what had made him suddenly reach for the bag where they kept the Gospels. But he took something much smaller from the satchel and grinned at her.

“I forgot; it was in Bristow; and then someone tried to take the book, and then there was the...fire, at Bath, and I forgot. Here. This is for you.” Across the palms of his hands lay a ribbon. Rey knew the fabric was called silk. It was blue, a deep blue that reminded her of the sea under the _Malak_ as it had flown across the waves; and embroidered up and down its length were beautiful flowers, picked out in purple and white.

Rey was incapable of speech. He’d brought her the sea, sprinkled with the flowers of Gibraltar. It was the loveliest thing she had ever owned. _Owned._ This was hers? A tear escaped the corner of her eye. Finn’s smile faltered. “Is it not...your hair. I didn’t think; I only saw this and I thought of you. I shouldn’t have…”

She put her hands over his, the ribbon between them. “I love it. I’ve never had anything so beautiful. You...for me? I love it. Some day, when there’s time and peace, I’ll wear it with pride, because you thought of me.” He beamed at her. She placed the ribbon carefully in her belt pouch; then took it out just to look at it again, before tucking it away once more. Finn laughed to see her take it back out again, and they were both smiling for most of the way to Canterbury.

…

The first thing Finn saw was the gate, tall and imposing. It reminded him of walking into Compostela, with Heaven on one side and Hell the other. It was frightening and exhilarating in equal measure. They were both so exhausted, they barely saw the rest of the abbey, impressive as it might have been. There would be time. There had to be. They were greeted at the door by the abbey’s guest master, a Brother Dismus. Finn got the impression of kindness, and cheer; but the guest master took them both in at a glance, wavering and practically asleep on their feet, and once he’d seen Finn’s letter he wasted no time in sending a passing novice to fetch the Abbot.

“You’ve come a distance that can hardly be credited, both of you; and once we’ve got the formalities out of the way we’ll have you both housed and sent to your beds. Here. Sit.” Brother Dismus ushered them to a pair of benches; something warm to drink appeared seemingly from nowhere, or perhaps Finn simply hadn’t noticed anyone else approach; had he fallen asleep where he sat?

It wasn’t long before an older brother appeared; Finn could see by looking at him that this was the Abbot. He was bearded and stern, and seemed familiar somehow, though Finn couldn’t pinpoint why that might be. He took the letter from Brother Dismus with thanks and carefully read through it. A strange mix of expressions passed across his face as he read; Finn didn’t know this man, but he thought he saw pride, resentment, fear...and hope.

“Well. We were very pleased when one of our own number was chosen, to create the gift from our king to yours. And now it seems that your own king, and your monastery, were pleased enough to send you all this way. Truly, a testament to the gift granted him by God. So...I am Luke, the Abbot of Saint Augustine’s. You would be Brother Finn, and who is your companion?” Luke turned his scrutiny to Rey, who was standing with her hands piously folded.

Finn handed him the second letter, the one from Mother Mary Mazarine. Oddly a tremor seemed to pass through Abbot Luke’s hand as he broke the seal, and again as he began to read. “I see. It is an interesting thought, training a scribe starting with a young man, just past his novice years, who has not yet learned his letters. And you are Brother Reymund.” The abbot folded the letters into his sleeve. “It seems our first course of action must be to introduce you to our lead scribe, then.”

Brother Dismus made a faint noise of protest. Luke glanced at him, then back at the two of them. “My apologies. You have just arrived and must be weary. Perhaps we should let you rest first.”

Finn and Rey both shook their heads as one before Finn spoke. “We’d like to meet the scribe with whom we shall be working, by all means. There will be time enough to rest and refresh ourselves afterward.” Exhaustion be damned. After all this time and all of the worry, he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d clapped eyes on this scribe.

They followed Abbot Luke through the halls of the Abbey. The abbot stopped to open a door, and Finn knew he was home. The Abbey’s scriptorium was beautiful; filled with light, shelves of beautiful manuscripts, and the smell of ink and parchment. There were a few monks at work here, as there should be. But when Finn spotted the broad shoulders and raven-dark hair of the man seated at the desk beneath the nearest window, he felt his heart leap. Best to be patient. It might be the wrong man. He’d never had a proper look at the scribe.

…

Ben was working. That was all he was doing. He worked, he ate (poorly), and he slept (even more poorly). He’d felt nothing from the warrior or the angel, and even he didn’t know any longer whether that meant the demon was winning or Ben himself was shutting out their help for fear that they would be destroyed, as his father had been, as he might still be. So he worked, and he wrestled with the images, alone; just as he had before hope had come to him.

When the scriptorium door opened, he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or alarmed; he could hear his uncle outside the door. Abbot Luke had been avoiding him, aside from one occasion when he’d visited the scriptorium to say that he was glad to see his nephew was well. Ben had thought briefly that Luke had more to say, but he’d turned and hurried off as though wolves were nipping at his heels. Perhaps he’d come to say whatever it was now.

But as it happened, Abbot Luke was talking to someone else. “Brother Finn, this is the scribe I mentioned to you, the one you’ve been seeking, who sent the Gospels to your king. This is Brother Benedictus. He is also my nephew. We’re very proud of him.” Ben reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the dragon of ignorance he’d been inking with loving care, to be defeated later on the same page.

“I am delighted to have your acquaintance.” The richly accented Latin demanded his attention. He looked up to see two unfamiliar monks accompanying his uncle the abbot. The sight of them made his breath catch for reasons he didn’t fully understand. The Gospels? So this was someone from far away who had seen one of his manuscripts. Pride warred with fear. Would they have seen the taint that crept into the work? Someone new was always someone who might know, might see.

But at the same time he felt as though something unknown had snapped back into place; as though he’d lost something precious, and here it was found. And...they were both, frankly, beautiful. Different as twilight descending and the rays of the sun; but Ben’s fingers itched to paint them both. He had a moment’s shame at the thought. Why? It was no sin to recognize and celebrate the beauty of God’s creations; a bird, a tree. Hadn’t he just been glorifying the word of God a bare moment ago? He wondered at feeling so many things at the mere sight of two other monks. He’d better say something.

He gave a short bow, hands folded. It was easier to be alone if he didn’t touch anyone. “Yes, it’s...very nice to make your acquaintance also, Brother Finn, was it?” Ben shot his uncle a questioning look and turned to the slenderer of the two monks. “And yours as well, Brother…?”

“Brother Reymund. Thank you, Brother Benedictus.” His voice was oddly husky; it, too, carried an accent, but Ben was familiar enough to think this might originate in Spain. The young man’s head was bowed in proper humility.

Luke answered the look Ben had given him. “Brothers Finn and Reymund have come to study with you, Benedictus. Brother Finn has been seconded to us from the monastery at Debre Damo to study illumination. It appears they were impressed with our king’s gift. Brother Reymund is starting at the beginning; his monastery in Huelva has sent him to learn his letters with a scribe of your caliber, in hopes that starting in this way will have an effect on the purity of his later work.” His uncle handed him a pair of letters whose seals had just been broken. “You may read their introductory correspondence for yourself; be sure to return it to my office when you’ve finished. I’ve said it’s long past time that you took an apprentice; now that question has been settled for us.”

Brother Reymund, who had still been standing patiently, head lowered, looked up at Ben from under his lashes. A pair of hazel eyes bored into his own with startling intensity. Ben looked back at the other one of the pair to find himself being studied with equal concentration by a second set of eyes; as dark, no, darker than his own. It was an extremely unsettling sensation.

…

They’d found the right man. Finn had known as soon as he’d turned to face them. He would have known those eyes anywhere. They were just as dark and full of pain as they’d been in dream and vision; the light in them not yet lost, but dim and receding. There were the strong arms that had supported them in the danger of a storm at sea. There was the voice he’d heard; he could hear it now, in memory, saying “Please.”

Finn felt as though he should be searching the room for enemies to fight; but there was no threat here. Just a scriptorium, with monks at their labor just as they should be; the abbot; and Brother Benedictus, whose internal agony Finn could _feel_ , once again connected as they stood face to face, and yet he could do nothing. He didn’t know them. Why didn’t he know them? The prickling of the hairs on his arms under the sleeves of his robes told Finn he would have known this man had he been blind. The intensity of that feeling, the relief at seeing their scribe, no, Benedictus, alive and whole, laced themselves through the fatigue of the last few days and had him surreptitiously leaning on the nearest desk. He’d best speak, anything might do. “I would be glad to learn from you; what I have seen of your work speaks volumes in a single image. I would like to see more, and to learn from the man who created such art.”

…

He was here. He was alive, and here, and right in front of her. Rey had been afraid to meet his eyes, afraid it wasn’t him, that he was gone and they were too late and this was some other scribe; but when her eyes met his she’d known. Her voice sounded strange to her as she gave him her assumed name; no doubt the result of having to get past the lump in her throat. Those were the eyes behind the mask; set in a long, pale face, framed by dark hair, near as dark as Finn’s but longer, almost shaggy, without his curls. There was weariness in those eyes, and in the set of his shoulders, the weariness of a battle without rest. She would have recognized him by his hands alone. Large and long-fingered, stained with ink, he held them close to his body as though he feared to be touched. Why?

She...felt. Almost none of what she felt could be named. The connection, the bond between the three of them was back, she’d felt it as soon as they’d entered the room. But his eyes...the warmth that had filtered through them like sunlight was less, she thought, like the pale light of winter, not the summer radiance that should live in those eyes. That hurt her to see. He was beautiful, as beautiful to her as the man who’d travelled beside her all this time, and she knew instantly she never intended to do without either of them again. But his face was closed, somehow, his posture guarded. Did he not know her? Was it her boy’s guise? She risked a look at Finn; no, Finn was only ever himself, and yet Brother Benedictus showed no sign of the leap of awareness that she could see Finn shared.

They had weariness in common, though. She could see Finn was failing; it had only been a short few days ago that he’d almost drowned, and she knew him well enough to know that his hand on the desk was there for a reason. Her own knees were weak with knowledge that they weren’t too late, with fear that the scribe was nonetheless lost to them as he stood right here, and with her own weariness at the journey’s end. Say something. “I would be honored to learn from you, Brother Benedictus. I know very little as of yet, but I would like to know more.” She _needed_ to know more; but now wasn’t the time.

It was the abbot, oddly, who came to their rescue. “Both of these brothers wished to meet you, Benedictus; but they have just arrived and need their rest. Brother Dismus will no doubt be very unhappy at their having been kept from their bed and board. So. I will arrange times for you to work with them both, and on the morrow, or perhaps the next day, we will begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timothy will insist upon returning; he worries about our Brother Ben. I love the ancient Irish tradition of the anamchara, the soul-friend; the person who's always there to listen to your hopes and fears, and to tell it exactly like it is when you need it. Research for this story is just so much FUN; it is a very odd thing to be looking at historic bridges in Surrey, medieval anaesthetics, curses in Irish Gaelic, pictures of Guildford Castle, which really, really is one of the most belligerent-looking buildings I have ever seen, and the behavior of fish in a river flood. And it is equally fascinating to consider the hopes and fears that belong to each person who appears in this story. Oh, and THEY'RE TOGETHER.


	14. Introductio et Frustratio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14: Introductions and Frustrations  
> In which we meet the Brothers of the Abbey of Saint Augustine at Canterbury.  
> In which Finn and Rey realize what it means that they must both practice necessary deceptions.  
> In which it's unacceptable that Rey has missed breakfast.  
> In which Brother Benedictus acquires a roommate; and in which our three heroes are frustrated and Brother Lorcan is amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They really did think it was going to be that easy, our Finn and Rey. But the most worthwhile quests also tend to be the most difficult.  
> More characters to spot, some more obscurely disguised than others. Have fun! We did. That's all @flypaper-brain, keeping it Star Wars.

There was a lot of sunlight. There was _too much_ sunlight. She’d slept too long! They had to get moving, to keep driving, to get to Canterbury so they could get to _him_ , unless it was already too late. Rey’s hand groped at her side. Where was Finn?! Under her fingers there was only a blanket and the wooden frame of a bed. Finn was gone. His voice echoed in her mind, calling “Rey?”, as he vanished into dark water. Where was he?!

Wait. A bed. She took a few deep breaths, her pulse slowing to a more reasonable rate. Right. They were already here. This was… the guest house at the Abbey of Saint Augustine, and she was a guest, a monk, Brother Reymund. They were safe, and he...Benedictus, that was his name, was alive, and he hadn’t known them. And Finn was nearby in another room, they were both monks now, both guests, both safe, and she’d been sleeping alone.

Sleeping late was what she’d been doing, by the look of the light coming in through the window. Rey wondered that no one had come to get her; didn’t they...get up early, or go to prayers, or...something, in an abbey? She did feel considerably better, though; less exhausted than when they’d got here. Still, they had a soul to save, even if he didn’t seem to know they were here to save it; no sense lying about too long.

The knock came as though she’d conjured it. “Brother Reymund?” That would be...Dismus, she remembered. The roundish, cheerful monk who’d greeted them the night before. “If you’re rested, I thought I’d take you and Brother Finn to see the Abbey, so you can meet the other brothers and get a sense of the place. I’ll meet you both at the guest-house door.” He’d been kind enough to leave a basin of water, some time the previous night; Rey took a few minutes to splash herself awake and somewhat more clean.

Finn was there, waiting with Brother Dismus when Rey stepped outside the guest-house; he looked better, less bruised around the eyes than he had; and solid enough to dissolve the remains of the panic she’d felt, waking without him.

“Well, then. I hope you’re both feeling better; you certainly looked as though you needed your rest. Welcome, both of you, to the Abbey of Saint Augustine. I am Brother Dismus, we met last night, if you recall; we’re quite proud of the place, and I do love visitors, which is probably why I was made guest-master.” Dismus chuckled. “It’s always nice to see new faces. Come, follow me.” He set a surprisingly brisk pace. Finn shrugged, smiling, and they both fell in behind the guest-master.

They walked past a cemetery and across an expanse of grass to the church itself; a cathedral, really. Brother Dismus was pointing out the architectural features of the nave and some of its history; Rey found herself watching Finn instead. The nave was impressive, but she’d seen a fair number of soaring cathedrals on the way here. Normally, she thought, Finn would have been fascinated by the history of the place; but he was still...intent, focused on what they needed to do.

Rey realized with a start that Brother Dismus had asked a question. It was a good thing Finn had been paying attention. “No, I don’t believe there’s any reason for us to see the crypts; we didn’t have such a thing at Debre Damo, but I believe that is where former Abbots and Bishops would be laid to rest?” Dismus confirmed that it was, and they continued walking. Rey studied them both; if she were going to be a monk, she’d better learn how to act, walk and talk like one.

She had several more subjects to study when they reached the Chapter House. Brothers Paul and Patrick, she learned, were the dean and provost (she wasn’t sure which one had which job or exactly what they did, and amusingly she wasn’t sure Dismus knew either). At the moment they seemed to be giving a joint lecture on the Rule (whatever that was). Brother Paul was pointing out that Saint Benedict, in his wisdom, had divided the monastic day into 3 equal parts for labor, prayer, and reading of scripture and other sacred writings.

Brother Patrick chimed into say that, of course, the venerable Saint Benedict understood the frailty and fallibility of Benedictine brothers, like any other mortal souls, and had made allowances for age, ability, disposition, individual needs, and spiritual stature; this sounded excellent to Rey in theory as she was certainly starting with very little experience in anything as a monk. Brother Patrick, though, eyed individual brothers in the room as though seeking out the ones most likely to have weaknesses in these areas as he spoke.

Brother Dismus cleared his throat, receiving a pair of stern looks in response. “Apologies, Brother Paul, Brother Patrick; I’m terribly sorry for the interruption.” The rest of the brothers took this as a signal that the meeting must be over and sidled out of the chapter house one at a time, each of them stopping to thank the dean and provost for the timely and educational reminders on the Rule, yes, thank you so much. Brothers Paul and Patrick could hardly do anything but gracefully accept the compliments, but they didn’t look as though they’d been finished.

Brother Dismus continued; was that a hint of a smile playing about his mouth? “Well. A pair of new brethren have arrived and it looks as though they’ll be with us for some time. This is Brother Finn, who’ll be joining us as a scribe, he’s come all the way from Ethiopia, my goodness, and Brother Reymund has joined him on the way, in Spain. They’ll both be studying with Brother Benedictus; other than that I’m not at all sure what they’ll be doing, but that shouldn’t be any trouble, I’m sure we’ll just figure it out as we go, shall we?”

Brothers Paul and Patrick each shook Rey’s and Finn’s respective hands, looking all the while as though they’d rather be dragged face-first over hot coals than figure things out as they went. But manners were manners, after all, and Finn was his usual courteous self; it was fascinating to watch the way he placated and disarmed the two fussy brothers in the space of a few sentences. Rey had no idea how he did that, and didn’t think she’d be likely to master the skill any time soon, so she spent the time studying the way the brothers folded their hands and sometimes tucked them into their sleeves.

They left the chapter house (which Rey gathered was used for all sorts of meetings and whenever all the brothers needed to be in one place) and walked across the cloister. This was a lovely green square of grass in the middle of all the stone buildings, bordered with trees. Rey felt at home in the space. She would have liked to stop and sit beneath one of the trees, but Brother Dismus was pointing out the abbot’s own quarters across the cloister from the chapter house.

“There was a great hall, too, for the abbot’s use, but when Abbot Luke took over here, he had it converted for us as a classroom for the novices here. He said it was more important that they learn something than that a whole room be set aside to show how great he was.” Dismus smiled at the memory. “Our Abbot believes that the peaceful education of young men improves us all, but,” here he turned a more serious look on them (Rey thought maybe, oddly, a little sad), “he does not tolerate defiance or disobedience. He has high expectations of everyone, including himself.”

They turned away from that side of the cloister, headed toward the fourth and final side, and entered the refectory. This place piqued Rey’s interest, since it was evidently where they’d be eating. And something was beginning to smell delicious. As they crossed the refectory toward the kitchen, they saw one of the brothers who’d just been in the meeting heading the same way with a stack of pottery bowls and cups balanced precariously in his arms.

“How are we meant to have enough dishes for the next meal if these fat-kidneyed fopdoodles never return them? I found half of these in the chapter house squirreled away under the chairs, Caius. Under the CHAIRS.” One of the cups fell to the floor, miraculously unbroken, but unfortunately just in front of the short, stocky brother’s foot. Brother Dismus, Finn, and Rey all spoke at once and all far too late. “Brother Radbod…”, said Dismus, alongside Finn’s “Brother, the cup..” and Rey, who managed to squawk “Look out!”, but Brother Radbod’s foot met the cup, which rolled as one might expect. He tipped forward and there were a series of cracking noises as he and his burden both hit the floor. All three of them rushed forward to help, afraid he’d managed to injure himself, but as they got closer they heard a surprised guffaw.

The fringe of curls around Brother Radbod’s ears trembled as he laughed. “Well, curse me for a clout, here I am complaining about the novices, trenchermen all of them, always making off with extra, and I’ve gone and broken the crockery!” They restored him to a sitting position. “Well, hello! You two are new. I don’t suppose you know enough to keep the dishes in here where they belong? Moot point now, isn’t it?” He looked ruefully at the pottery pieces piled in front of him. “Those aren’t going to be much use. I’m Brother Radbod, the kitchener, which sadly means I’ll be the one accounting for these.”

Rey already knew she was going to like Brother Radbod. She’d learned several new and interesting words just in the last few minutes. “They could still be useful. I can repair them, if you like. The pieces are large. Where do you keep the glue? Pine pitch would work, in a pinch, and it wouldn’t spoil the contents.” Finn was shaking his head and smiling at her as he scooped up the pieces into a more manageable pile. “Err. If you like, that is.”

Brother Dismus helped the kitchener to his feet. “Why don’t we find a bag or basket for those, and we can certainly let you try. Radbod, this helpful young man is Brother Reymund, and this is Brother Finn. Let’s see what Brother Caius has that might help.” They carefully carried the broken pieces back to what turned out to be the kitchen, and the source of the delicious smells. Brother Radbod gestured to the various bits of crockery. “Look, Caius, I’ve found the missing dishes, clever me.”

The tall monk standing at a counter looked over. His lean face with its drooping mustache dissolved into oddly noiseless laughter; there was only a hissing noise. Rey was embarrassed to hear a much louder noise coming from her own stomach, which only served to heighten the silent paroxysms. Brother Caius waved them to put the broken dishes on one of the tables. He frowned at Rey as she passed by with her part of them, extending a hand to clasp her arm, and turned to Brother Radbod to enact some sort of pantomime.

Brother Radbod turned to Rey. “Brother Caius is a mute as well as an excellent cook. He’s supposed to be writing on a wax tablet so everyone can understand him, but he keeps...accidentally...losing it. He believes you’re too skinny and wants to know why Brother Dismus let you miss breakfast.” Caius nodded, miming bringing food to his lips, then shaking his head with a shrug. “Well, Caius, I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to eat, he just got here.” Brother Caius was already moving to a sort of cabinet, from which he removed what proved to be a sweet pastry of some kind, filled with raisins and scented with cinnamon. He handed it to Rey with a flourish. It was irresistible; she couldn’t help but dig into the delicious treat.

There was laughter in Finn’s voice as he spoke. “I assure you, Brother Reymund will be happy to give proper respect to any creation you might wish to bestow upon him.” Rey thought about protesting, but given that she was halfway through the pastry as he continued by introducing them both, decided against it. “And he can repair absolutely anything, I know this to be true.” Brother Caius seemed delighted, at any rate, and produced a second roll, which he handed to Finn. A few moments later, he poured two cups of herb tea and gave one to each of them.

Brother Radbod frowned. “You know we’ll have to account to Brother Robert for the extra supplies if you keep feeding people out of time, Caius. Last time it was Brother Benedictus, now it’s these two.” Brother Caius only raised an eyebrow and shrugged, then made another series of inexplicable gestures. “Yes, I know he wasn’t eating enough either, but it’s me that has to explain...what do you mean, it was Robert’s idea? Well, I suppose that does make it easier.” Rey could see Finn listening intently at the mention of Brother Benedictus; she was doing the same herself. Anything they could learn might help.

The remainder of their time with Brother Dismus mostly involved learning where they’d be staying; Brother Osgood, the chamberlain, was apparently vexed at two new brothers dropped into his lap out of nowhere. The dormitorium was full, he said, they couldn’t possibly fit anyone else in the space; neither the brothers’ nor the novices’ areas had any room, and besides, even if he was still too young to grow a beard, this Brother Reymund looked much older than the others and he’d already taken his vows, hadn’t he, and where on earth was he meant to put a visiting scribe? He’d have to share with Benedictus, oh dear. He was still protesting as they left the dormitorium, scribbling notes on a wax tablet.

They walked past a series of rooms that turned out to be the calefactory (Rey didn’t know this word, but the heat rising from its wall was explanation enough), the library, and the scriptorium they’d visited the previous evening. Her heart leapt to see a pair of broad shoulders and a head full of long, dark hair; a glance to her left showed that Finn, too, was glad to be reminded that Benedictus was still here, alive and to all appearances well. The shoulders tensed and his head lifted, as though he would acknowledge them; but he returned to his work at the desk without looking their way.

Brother Dismus laid a finger on his lips. “We won’t disturb them just now; I know you met Brother Benedictus, you’ll both be working with him. Our precentor is here somewhere as well, but I believe he’s in the middle of a rather tricky repair; a manuscript was...damaged. He’ll have the glue you needed, Brother Reymund; I’ll get it for you after he’s finished and bring it to you in the guest quarters. Our infirmarium is further down this same way, but I believe he is dealing with a novice and his rather spectacular bellyache,” he chuckled, “so we’ll have to introduce him at another time.”

They headed back to the guest house past the abbey’s gardens and the spaces for its animals. Brother Daniel was the stable-master; they’d met him briefly as he took charge of Bastian on their arrival. Rey wondered what their places were going to be in all this. “Brother Dismus, what will we be doing here? Other than our lessons in writing and illumination, that is. Everyone seems to have a job to do, and I’d like to be useful.”

The question seemed to leave Dismus both pleased and exasperated. “I’m glad to hear you so willing, Brother Reymund. We’ll just have to learn where you’ll both be of most use as we go, I think. Brother Finn will be very much in demand as a copyist and...translator, I believe, if I understood Abbot Luke?” Finn nodded. “And from what Brother Finn says, you’ll be brought all sorts of things to repair.” He smiled suddenly, like warm sunlight. “You’re both very welcome, and I’m certain that soon we won’t be able to imagine how we did without you. Now. Brother Finn, we’ll let you get your things; Brother Osgood said you’ll need to share with Brother Benedictus; he’s the only one who has any room left and you’ll be working together at any rate. Brother Reymund, we’ll sort you out later.”

Brother Dismus bustled off after they got back to the guest house. It wasn’t until Finn was packing his things that Rey realized what Brother Dismus had said. She hadn’t thought about what living at a monastery would mean. They were going to be separated. She’d be waking up every morning without him beside her. Without warning, she felt tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Finn turned at the sob she couldn’t quite suppress, and she was in his arms, pack forgotten at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into the side of his face, “I didn’t realize we...I should have known we wouldn’t be together, but…” She meant to say she’d gotten used to not being alone; but she felt his tears join her own in rolling down her cheek and neither of them really needed to say anything, did they? He’d be with Benedictus, which could only be good; but she’d be alone again. It was hard not to think she’d be no one.

She’d wake up alone, she’d sleep alone, and she wasn’t Rey anymore, she was Brother Reymund, and who knew when she’d feel his arms around her again? They stood that way for a while, their tears mingling; both of them needed to soak up the feeling of safety and support, of _together_ , for as long as they could, to store it away for the days to come. The tears seemed to taste bitter, after he’d gone, leaving only the memory of his touch to remind her that she wasn’t really alone. That she was someone, to Finn. It was important that she remember that; they’d taken comfort from each other, and she would be the someone they needed, Finn and Benedictus both.

…

He’d been back at work on the dragon he’d drawn the previous evening, adding Michael and his blazing wings. Archangel Raphael watched from the facing page, a cool, soothing presence ready to heal even the hurts of another angel. There had come a feeling, as each feather took its place; it was only a flash, a spark, and at first he hadn’t recognized it. Joy. It was joy. What reason did he have to feel joyful? Ben had fought the urge to turn and look; he didn’t know whether he was afraid his own warrior and angel would be there, or that they wouldn’t. But they weren’t; the feeling had disappeared. Help and hope had vanished, they would not return; because he was past help, and he would let nothing else be destroyed by the thing that stalked him. It had taken an effort to force his head back down, to go back to the page; seeing it again, it had suddenly looked just as likely that the dragon would triumph.

Ben abruptly set down his tools, to a few startled looks from the other brothers in the scriptorium. He wasn’t going to get any good work done before midday; he thought about the book he’d been reading, waiting for him next to his bed. Maybe it would help to read it now; a story in which Heaven’s defenders were certain to prevail. No one questioned him as he left the scriptorium to head back to his cell. He couldn’t decide whether he wished they had.

…

The cell was small; but not so small that it couldn’t have held more than one brother all along; smaller spaces at home certainly had. Home. Where was that, now? On the road, it had been wherever Rey was; and Finn had hoped it might be here, at last. But Rey was out of reach, apart, to both their loss and sorrow; and it was clear as soon as he’d entered the room that he was an interloper here. He wondered why Benedictus had been given his own space, especially with the Abbey as full as it was; and why it was next to the abbot’s own quarters. He knew how extraordinary and how imperiled Benedictus was, but he’d presumed that no one else did.

The man in question had been sitting on his bed reading when Finn arrived; but he’d risen immediately to his feet. Brother Osgood hadn’t stayed to make introductions as Dismus had been doing; he’d merely knocked on the door, then hurried off to some other no doubt pressing issue, tablet in hand. They stood, Finn still carrying his possessions, Benedictus warily looking him over, for a few minutes. Finn couldn’t think of a single polite thing to say; he could only stare at the man they’d thought of for so long as “their scribe”, here finally in the flesh.

Brother Benedictus looked at the pack and satchel in Finn’s hands and broke the silence . “What are you doing here? And what…” He was interrupted by the return of Brother Osgood, along with what must be one of the larger novices, who he seemed to have pressed into service; they were carrying in a second bed. As Benedictus watched the proceedings, a peculiar series of expressions crossed his face. Finn didn’t know him well enough to identify them all; but confusion and fear were definitely present before he settled on outrage, not very well concealed. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, spine straight; Finn practically expected his hair to bristle like the back of an angry cat.

“There’s no room, Brother Benedictus, we simply didn’t have anywhere else to put him, and you’ve got room here, so here he goes. Careful, boy, yes right there.” The boy turned red; he was all arms, legs, and hair, still clearly a child. Brother Osgood turned to Finn and spoke with no pause for a response. “All settled? Got all your things? Yes, then, very good, got to go and figure out what to do with the other one, come along, I may need you to move another bed…” Osgood’s voice faded as he followed the novice down the hall.

Finn set his things down by the second bed and glanced over at the other man. Benedictus was sitting on the bed again, but he was still unnaturally upright, a faint flush at his hairline and his ears...and his book was upside-down. This was not going to be easy. They’d brought in a small table, somewhere in there. Finn began taking his scribe’s tools out of the satchel and setting them out on the table before he spoke; he could see the book being lowered as the tools got an interested look from Brother Benedictus. “I am sorry to intrude; Brother Osgood was most insistent that there was no room elsewhere. I...will endeavor not to be a disturbance.” Something about that last sentence deepened the flush, of which Finn thought Benedictus was entirely unaware.

“That would be appreciated. I am here, for the most part, to sleep and to read, both of which I prefer to do undisturbed.” Benedictus himself seemed to be aware of the unkindness of that last; there was a slight wince. A little too hastily, he picked up the book he’d been reading; a parchment slid out from under the cover. His face went from flushed to pale as he tucked the piece of parchment quickly back into the volume; glancing over at Finn, who was busily pretending to be occupied arranging his things.

Any irritation at the other man’s rudeness had vanished; Finn had had enough time to see the drawing before Benedictus hid it again. A man in Benedictine robes wielded a quarterstaff next to an angel whose stance...and sword...looked very familiar. Right. He could be patient. He could be tolerant. This couldn’t be easy for Benedictus either. Finn just couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t recognize rescue when it was moving into his very own room. He looked over to see that Benedictus was running his thumb over and over the edge of the parchment where it protruded from the cover of the book he was almost certainly not reading, as though he needed to know it was still there; as though it were a comfort to touch.

…

He wouldn't let her touch him. Rey supposed she didn't have any particular reason to touch him, but he neither did he have any particular reason to avoid it. They'd been working together for a week now, as he taught her the curves and lines and shapes of every letter; and Finn's hands were skilled and he was patient and she'd liked to look at his writing even if she couldn’t understand it, but Benedictus was something entirely other. He made it seem as though each letter was its own beautiful creature, just come alive and emerging delicately onto the page, a wondrous new thing to be admired. And the work required that they be close together, side by side sometimes but more often he leaned behind her as she worked or she stood at his shoulder as he demonstrated the swooping shapes, and it was impossible that their hands or arms or even their heads hadn't come together at some point by sheer chance. But whenever she thought they might, he just wasn't there. And wasn't that the trouble.

And she wondered if it was all because she was a boy and he was a monk and she was a monk, but then so was Finn and he’d touched her. He was the first person in her life, really, who had; it wasn’t even that it had been very often, but they knew when the other felt alone or felt sad or just _felt_ , and now it was easy. Nothing about Brother Benedictus was easy. Rey was frustrated because she felt like they’d carried him with them all this way, and she’d discovered that she liked very much to be touched; but he behaved as though they were strangers. And they were; but they weren’t, and she already knew how he’d feel, but he was closed and alone, and she wanted to yell at him that _**“You’re not alone!”**_ but she knew that would sound mad.

So she dutifully practiced and she watched him form the shapes, and she rolled the sound of them on her tongue. She’d never thought about the sound of individual letters and that everything she said was made of those sounds, and what Finn had said back in a cave on Gibraltar was finally beginning to make SENSE, if she could use the letters to make the sounds and the sounds to make words then she could hear the sound of someone else even if they weren’t there. But she’d already done that, she thought, sneaking a glance at Benedictus as he worked, lips pursed in concentration. She’d read him, sounded out the letters of him, across all that distance and for all this time, read his despair and his pain and his dreadful isolation; and now that she was here the cover was closed and the pages were blank.

He was polite, she supposed; he was teaching her because it was what he’d been told to do; but all the while he was wintry, and for all she could tell, a little bored. He didn’t know, but she did, that all this was so that she might finally be able to get at the book in her head, the one that Finn had never been able to coax to light. And very faintly, so faintly that she doubted what she knew, had known since the day she’d been scrubbing the floor in Seville, she felt a thread of something running between them. Somewhere under all the cool competence and the hint of something Rey thought might be arrogance, she felt a sense of being pulled, being twisted like a green branch before it snapped. God knew she felt stretched taut enough to break; but it wasn’t her feeling. She was almost certain that it wasn’t hers.

 

…

“Part of the process of illumination and illustration is deciding which image will have the most impact. You might add something that isn’t even in the words, but it’s an image that came to mind when you read them. Or you might find significance in something that’s mentioned in passing, but you saw it behind your eyes as you read.” Ben abruptly clamped his mouth shut. That was entirely too close to a confession of things about which he must be silent. He didn’t understand what it was about these two, these complete strangers, that put him in danger of loosening his tongue. He saw many things behind his eyes, he thought bitterly, and he must speak of none of them.

He couldn’t imagine why he wanted so desperately to trust this man, to trust both of them and let all his secrets spill over into speech, but the faint hope he’d had that his wait was over had disappeared when he’d read the letters. That letter was a LIE. A well-done, skillful lie, to be sure, a credit to the skills Ben could already see that Brother Finn possessed, but Ben had been disappearing into his focus on parchment and the letters adorning it for a very long time, and the words on that parchment had been replaced. Twice, if he was not mistaken.

He’d said nothing to his uncle; the thought that the two of them might be sent away was unbearable to him even as the deception made him wary. Why would his saviors, the hope of Heaven, need to lie? No, his warrior and angel were bright and bold and full of courage, and he didn’t know why these two brothers were here, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t trust them. He wondered what on earth would cause a scribe of Brother Finn’s caliber to stoop to forgery just to be admitted here.

Brother Finn was giving him a curious look, he’d been silent too long; and that was possibly the truest thought he’d ever had. “Take this volume, for instance.” Ben snaked an arm behind and to one side without looking, he knew where the books in this room lived better than he knew himself. The Odyssey was exactly where he’d expected, well-worn but still beautiful, filled with a story of hardship and loneliness and pain and finally coming home.

He paged through closer to the end of the book, because that was most full of hope, and found the illustration he was seeking, Odysseus home at last but treated as a stranger, so altered that no one knew the face he wore. And there was Argos; old and frail and nearly blind, but still full of faithful attachment to someone he hadn’t seen or felt for so, so long. Nothing would have kept him from recognizing the man he’d missed, to show his steadfast devotion once more. “See here...”, Ben started to say, and found himself nearly unable to speak at all.

He had often thought about what Odysseus must be feeling here; the way it must squeeze and yet lift his heart to be known, to feel that longing and love pierce his disguise, even in the face of encroaching death. “The dog is the center of the passage, but...”

He’d meant to say that the artist had taken the goats and deer and hares that young Argos had hunted and set them frolicking in the marginalia of the piece, but voice and words both failed him. Ben reached down under his feet to give Octavius’ ears a scratch; he wasn’t supposed to be in the scriptorium, or for that matter out of the stables, but he cried and howled if he didn’t see Brothers Finn and Reymund often enough, and it had distressed brother Daniel to the point that all the other brothers pretended not to see him when he was inside. Even Abbot Luke had said nothing.

He must have closed his eyes to ward off the tears that prickled the backs of them; when he opened them, for an instant he saw something warm and sympathetic in the other man’s face, a concern in the brown eyes that searched his own before Brother Finn dropped them politely to the page that lay open in front of them. He must be imagining it in his longing to be seen. But to let his inner life be known would be to invite the thing inside him to see out in return, and he wouldn’t let the creature sink its fiery claws into anyone else.

Ben was thinking desperately of what he’d been going to say, this was ridiculous, words were his vocation, but Brother Finn spoke first. “The illustration is beautiful; it isn’t your work, I can see, but it is very expressive. I cannot imagine how the artist managed to convey such emotion when depicting a dog; I don’t mean to say they cannot feel…” Ben snatched his fingers back as Brother Finn reached down himself to run his hand down Octavius’ flank. “...but that their love, or sadness, or joy are conveyed in the lines of their bodies, of necessity, since their faces cannot be as open as we’d like. What is this story? How has the author rendered this, that the artist has made it so plain?”

When Brother Finn raised his head again, there was nothing in his expression but polite, puzzled inquiry. Regaining precarious control of himself, Ben gave nothing but polite inquiry in return as he spoke. “It’s the Odysseia, the Odyssey. You don’t read Greek?” That was surprising. This man read, and spoke, nearly everything else. His scholarship was almost frightening; and for Ben, that was saying something.

Brother Finn looked faintly embarrassed. “I have never studied Greek. That language was not much in evidence at the monastery where I trained. Amharic, of course, Latin, Arabic, Ge’ez, even a bit of Aramaic. I know the letters, they are the same as those used in the Coptic language, but the words are unfamiliar.”

It was Ben’s turn to be embarrassed. That had probably sounded as though he were questioning the other man’s skills; far from it. He’d never even heard of some of those languages, never mind the English, Spanish and even French of which he knew Brother Finn had some command. He would have liked to express his admiration; but he couldn’t, he mustn’t open himself that way. Nevertheless, before he’d finished that thought he heard himself say “I can teach you. Greek. To read Greek.”

He was an idiot. Why would he subject himself even further to the baffling and nearly irresistible urge to speak truth, to seek comfort from this man he hardly knew? Because he craved the company of a like mind; any company at all, really, but to find someone who could learn and love the words as much as Ben did himself; that was a heady and altogether dangerous temptation.

…

This man was fighting a war that went on even in his sleep. He was beginning to understand that now. Finn knew he himself was hard to wake, once he’d fallen asleep; Rey had teased him about it once or twice. But he’d already been woken more than once by Benedictus thrashing and crying out at night, and it was impossible to say how many other times it had happened and he hadn’t heard. It was heartbreaking to hear; and he wondered that Abbot Luke, there on the other side of the wall, could stand to listen. His own uncle!

It had been clear that Benedictus was not pleased to share his quarters, but the Abbey was full to capacity. They’d been even more perplexed about what to do with Brother Reymund, much younger than the other brothers, but older than any of the novices here, of which at any rate they had a full complement as well; they’d decided she would remain in guest housing (which, considering, was probably just as well). So Finn spent nights missing Rey’s reassuring presence by his side, and listening to a man in pain.

Finn was not at all sure how much longer he could stand it, and even less sure how Benedictus himself had endured for so long without succumbing to madness. By day their scribe was reasonably courteous, hardworking...and distant; tightly controlled and bound in self-isolation that hurt Finn’s heart to see. He couldn’t understand the change; they’d been so much more easily connected when distance had separated them, and it was mystifying that Benedictus should shut them out now that they were finally here. It seemed they were strangers to him. He worked with Finn and Rey both as he’d been bidden to do, and as they read and wrote and sketched, Finn could see glimpses of a light and enthusiasm for learning that matched his own; but outside the work he spoke to no one and he read and ate alone and untouched.

That was its own sort of torment; Rey had taught Finn so much about the simple comfort to be found in a touch, but it was clear that such a thing would be impossible here. Benedictus held himself apart, hands careful, shoulders rigid, as though waiting to flinch away from contact. Even before he’d understood with Rey how much could be made better just by holding each other, brothers at his home had freely expressed their friendship; a thump on the back, or the clasp of a hand or arm. The diligence with which Benedictus avoided even the most fleeting proximity was faintly ludicrous and altogether irritating.

The work, though, was compelling. Benedictus was a fantastically gifted artist. His work was full of images that could tell a story, but more, could make one feel the experience of the words. It was fascinating to watch him work, face expressive in its concentration, images dancing into being as his long fingers moved across the parchment; once or twice there had been a slight smile or the faintest hum as he sketched before Finn could watch him recall himself to stillness and school his features once more. This was going to require a great deal of patience and more subtlety than it had ever occurred to Finn that he might possess. The thin hint of the bond between them, barely perceptible, was some reassurance; but it had never occurred to them in all this time that they would have to win his trust.

…

 _ **Ná feic a bhfeicir, is ná clois a gcloisir, is má fiafraítear díot; abair ná feadrais**_. _Don't see what you see, don't hear what you hear, and if you're asked, say you don't know_. Lorcan could remember his mother saying that, a very, very long time ago, but he didn’t think she could possibly have imagined why it was lately on his mind.

Most of his time was spent in the infirmarium, to be certain, as it should be; but he still had to eat, and fetch water for the tisanes and decoctions he was making, and he made it to prayers more often than not. And not a single one of the others seemed to have noticed, celibates that they’d been all their lives, that Brother Reymund was no brother at all. How extremely interesting THAT was. Lorcan might be a monk now, but he remembered how a woman moved and spoke; and this Reymund might be doing his best, but, no, it was HER best.

He’d toyed with the idea of saying something, what and to whom he had no real earthly idea. Over the days, though, he’d spotted the two of them, Brother Finn and whoever Brother Reymund might really be, thick as thieves, talking over their breakfast. There on the other side of the refectory, alone as he’d been since the fire, Brother Benedictus had been sitting with a look that Lorcan could only describe as _hungry_. This was growing more amusing by the minute, for whenever Benedictus dropped his head to his plate the two of them were looking back at him as though he were the last hope of salvation. And couldn’t those be just the right words? Ben needed a shelter, and from what Lorcan had seen of things so far, these two might just be fit for the work. They’d better be; that one would require Herculean labour.

Abbot Luke would be apoplectic with rage if he realized there was a cuckoo in the nest, but what Luke didn’t know could fill a tome the size of a dining table, and he certainly didn’t need to know this. Ben had stopped talking to anyone at all, and if this pair could do anything to repair that, then luck to them however this farce played out in their favor. Certainly Luke hadn’t managed to make any headway removing his head from his nethers, for all the talk they’d had. So. Lorcan wouldn’t see what he was seeing, or hear whatever he might hear, and certainly neither would anyone else; and the children would sort themselves out in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was highly entertained by researching nigh-incomprehensible medieval curses. I love the fact that brothers in  
> a monastery are as fallible and human as anyone else; and the Rule of Saint Benedict really does explicitly take that into account.  
> We knew Ben was going to be a hard one to crack, our stubborn, suspicious, beleaguered boy. Thanks to @leofgyth/@leoba for  
> alerting me to Emily Wilson's gorgeous translation of The Odyssey (iambic pentameter, y'all!), which may or may not  
> have been acquired at very short notice from the library by someone in my house who is very patient with me. And somewhere in there, we discovered that all of our Ben's favorite stories are about coming home.


	15. Intentio et Eruditio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 Summary: Intentions and Education
> 
> In which more people are worried about Brother Benedictus than he knows.  
> In which Benedictus needs to be told off about his attitude, and Rey is here for that.  
> In which nascent thirst is real.  
> In which...Bees? And we learn some of the consequences of Ben's precarious situation.  
> In which the Odyssey is both kind and unkind; and in which Brother Benedictus would like to be kind, but worries about killing with kindness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brother Finn is far too patient, polite, and subtle for his own good.  
> Brother Reymund is not subtle in the slightest.  
> Character breadcrumbs continue, enjoy.  
> Watching a whole-body involved reader enjoy a story is a joy and a treasure. Thanks, @flypaper-brain!  
> New challenge: Spot metaphors for our Ben, especially animals.  
> Google Translate is frustrating, but one of the nice things about it is the multiple suggested meanings for a word when I'm attempting to use my nearly nonexistent Latin. Intentio is translated as: intention, attention, caring, stretching, reaching out, strain, exertion, effort. And all of those are happening here.

Bastian’s coat was in need of a brushing. It generally was, and Brother Daniel was no doubt doing his best, but there had never been a donkey as shaggy as this one, Finn thought. After today’s work with Brother Benedictus, while the evidence of his eyes and ears was soundly contradicted by that trickle of some less identifiable knowledge, it was soothing to concentrate on the simple care that Bastian needed. This was something he could *do*, and was welcomed by the recipient. So he borrowed some of the stable-master’s curry combs and brushes (smiling as he remembered using a pine cone for the very same job) and went to work. And if he buried his face in the shaggy coat and shed a few hot tears of pure frustration, who was to know but Bastian; and he wouldn’t be telling anyone.

 

The knots and tangles required concentration and absorbed all his attention, which was just as well at the moment.  Occasionally a bird would swoop into the stable to make off with a bit of Bastian’s coat while Finn was working, which made him laugh.  “You must produce a truly superior nesting material, my friend. We help others as we can along the way, don’t we?” Bastian tossed his head up and down as though nodding in agreement, then blew a *whuff* of warm, hay-scented breath into Finn’s hair and down his neck.  His chuckle at the gesture of affection was oddly echoed at a higher pitch from the next stall. “Will you excuse me a moment, Bastian?”

 

Finn set down the combs and brushes and peered around into the next stall.  He was greeted by the sight of a young boy attempting to lead one of the great draft horses that normally pulled the abbey’s wagon out of his stall.  The gelding was evidently feeling playful today, however; he, too, was tossing his head, which given his size meant that the boy was pulled entirely off his feet to hang from the lead rope until the great head was lowered again; the sound of giggles would seem to indicate he was enjoying this very much.  It was impossible not to laugh along with him. 

 

“Hello?  Would you like some help, or are you having altogether too much fun? I am…”

 

The boy let go of the lead rope.  “You’re Brother Finn! I know. You’re new, so everyone knows who you are.  I am having fun; but I can’t muck out the stall if Goliath won’t come outside.  Silly boy,” he said to the gelding, patting as far up the horse’s flank as he could reach before turning back to Finn.  “I’m Timothy. Brother Daniel lets me work in the stables because I like horses. What are you doing here?” He picked up the lead rope again and passed it to Finn.  “Here, you try.”

 

The boy was disarmingly friendly.   Finn put out a hand, which was soundly shaken.   “Pleased to meet you, Timothy. I am here to brush Bastian, the donkey.  He helped us, Brother Reymund and myself, to get here all the way from the south of Spain; and he misses us when we are busy with other things, I believe.   So when I am free, I come here to spend some time with him; and his coat does require a great deal of care.” Finn clucked at the draft horse, coaxing the great beast out of his stall.  Goliath tried his trick again, but Finn wasn’t quite as light as Timothy, and the gelding soon settled as Finn murmured nonsense to him and stroked his nose.

 

Timothy continued chattering as he went to work with the broom and rake.  “It does! I’ve never SEEN so much hair. The first time I saw him, I wondered if there was actually a donkey under there.  He’s been chewing on the door of his stall; is he upset at being inside?” The volume of his voice varied considerably from word to word as he cleaned the stall.

 

Finn laughed as he stroked Goliath’s neck.  “No, he’s not upset; Bastian chews everything.  Including people, occasionally; he’s friendly enough, but watch your fingers if you decide to feed him a treat.”

 

The stable-master appeared in the doorway, a bearded, burly man with powerful arms and shoulders but a surprisingly boyish face.  “Timothy! Are you finished with the stalls yet? Oh, hello. You must be Brother Finn. I’m terribly sorry, this isn’t your work at all; you’re a scribe, aren’t you?  Here, let me take that.” He took the lead rope, giving the gelding’s long jaw a good scratch as he did. “Have you been playing your tricks again, Goliath? I told you, you’re not to interfere with Timothy’s work no matter *how* much he seems to like it.”  He grinned at the horse.

 

Finn shook his head.  “I don’t mind. In fact, I’d meant to ask whether you needed any help.  I’m here to spend time with Bastian whenever I have a chance, and I enjoy working with horses.  I love my work, but this would make a fine break from all the sitting and give me a chance at some fresh air.  If...that’s all right?” He had no idea how work was assigned here; they’d all pitched in wherever they had skill or inclination at home; in a small monastery it was necessary.

 

Timothy poked his head out of the stall and nodded.  “He’s really good, Brother Daniel, Goliath listened to him right away, I don’t know what he said, it was really soft, but he *never* listens to me, maybe I’m too far away from his ears, I don’t know, but Brother Finn knows horses, I can tell.” At a raised eyebrow from Brother Daniel, he ducked back into the stall to finish his work.

 

“A sound endorsement, it seems.  We could certainly use the help. And our Abbot’s been thinking about acquiring some more horses, I believe.  I’ll speak to Abbot Luke about assigning you to the stables between your other work, if you like. And many thanks for the offer.  I’m Brother Daniel, as you no doubt heard. I’m sure we can find plenty of work for you.” 

 

Finn was on his way back to the abbey and his work in copying and translation when he heard light footsteps behind him.  “Brother Finn?” It was Timothy again, running quietly toward him while casting surreptitious glances back at the stable to check whether he’d been missed.

 

Finn turned to look down at the boy, who was fidgeting as he looked at his own toes; as though deciding what to say.  “Yes, Master Timothy?”

 

Timothy took a deep breath.   “You...you work with Brother Benedictus, don’t you?  In the scriptorium? Is...is he all right? He’s...he won’t...he doesn’t talk to anyone, any more; not since the fire.”  He waved a hand in the general direction of an outbuilding next to the stable. Finn had noticed the damage and the remains of the wagon, but no one had said anything about it, and the building seemed mostly intact.  “He...he doesn’t come to the stables, not ever, and I thought maybe I’d speak to him instead, but he looks as though he doesn’t want to speak to anyone, and I just...it’s not good to be alone. That’s all.” The boy looked thoroughly miserable.  There was more of a story to be had here, Finn knew. A fire. There certainly had been that. But he could wait.

 

For now, “I’m not certain,” Finn replied.  “We’ve only just met, really. I believe Brother Benedictus is well, but he is not the most talkative of men. I will tell him, as we work, that you asked after him, shall I?  You are right; it is not good to be alone. So. We will do our best to lead him to understand that he is not. I must go; I am expected. And you, I think, have work to do as well.”  Finn held up a finger. “Bastian is very fond of lucerne. And Goliath will cooperate better if you go slowly, and speak softly to him. It doesn’t matter what you say, so long as it is soft and low.  Don’t worry. We can only do our best.”

 

A call of “Timothy?  Where *is* that boy?”  came drifting from the stables.  Finn raised an eyebrow at the boy in question, who grinned, nodded, and ran back in that direction.

 

Interesting.  Brother Benedictus wasn’t as entirely alone as they’d thought.  Perhaps that would be of some help.

 

...

 

“The stables?  Why? You’ll ruin your hands.”   Ben couldn’t help glancing down at the hands in question.  Brother Finn had beautiful hands, to be sure, but rougher than he knew his own to be.  Why a scribe of his skill would want to work out in the stables was a mystery. Why had he said that?  Work in the stables would put the other man out of Ben’s reach; he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Time in the outdoors was a good idea; but he preferred a long, rambling walk when he wanted fresh air and solitude.

 

There was a pause; but Brother Finn’s tone was even as he replied.  “I’ve managed tolerably well so far, and there wasn’t exactly anyone else to do the rough work on the way here.  I enjoy horses, and it’s good to do something physical after being in here all day.” He looked alarmed as soon as that sentence left his mouth.  “Not that I don’t enjoy working in the scriptorium; and this one is wonderful. I see your hand in the way the space is arranged. I’m just used to being more active.  At home…” 

 

There was the slightest flinch as he said those words; Ben wondered if that had anything to do with the marks of scraping and the minute differences in ink he’d found in that letter.  “...one had to climb a rope merely to enter the monastery itself; and there were few enough of us that everyone turned their hand to the business of keeping body and soul together along with our more monastic endeavors.”

 

The explanation was fascinating, but unnecessary; it was perfectly obvious that Brother Finn was used to a more challenging level of activity than was customary for a scribe here.  The travel alone sounded as though it had been difficult; even Brother Reymund, slight as he might be, was stronger than one would expect. Ben wanted to know more; but you couldn’t get a story without giving one, and that he couldn’t do.  Wouldn’t do. He wasn’t going to let his story hurt anyone else.

 

Brother Finn was speaking again.  “You’re welcome to join me, if you like.  There’s a boy working in the stables who asked about you; Timothy?  He seemed to think you could use some time out of the scriptorium.”

 

Ben felt cold.  His face was cold, but it was burning.  How was that possible? The screams were in his ears again.  No, his story was poison; and nobody needed any more of it, especially Timothy, with his open heart and all his life in front of him.  Brother Finn was giving him that look again; the one that seemed to say “ _ Talk  _ to me, I care what’s behind your eyes, I know something’s wrong, tell me all of it,” that dangerous, dangerous look.  It was subtle; he might have missed it if they weren’t spending so much time working together; he wanted to say something, but it was a chance he couldn’t take.  Sharing would be dangerous for both of them. 

 

And he’d waited too long to speak, again.  “He’s a nice enough child, but we have nothing in common.  I have no interest in horses and he has no interest in manuscripts.”  Had that sounded more or less normal? Ben had no idea. It sounded cold, even he thought so; arrogant, was that better than afraid? He didn’t dare look Brother Finn in the eye; he was afraid to see any shred of sympathy disappear.  Better to have them, Finn and Timothy both, where he couldn’t get at them; they’d be safer that way. 

 

He must have made appropriate-sounding noises and sentences; soon enough Brother Finn had finished his copying and translation work and was taking his leave.  Some sort of schedule had been discussed; Ben couldn’t have said what it was, his thoughts had been running in circles and his own work hadn’t been nearly up to his standards today.  He could only hope the outside of his head wasn’t going to be as loud as the inside tonight.

 

…

 

Brother Benedictus seemed to be short on patience and politeness both today.  Rey didn’t understand why; but he was making her feel stupid, and she did not like it one bit.  His careful, creative explanations of the shapes had gone; he simply drew the letter and waited with obvious impatience for her to do the same.  Then he would shake his head before she was even finished writing it; “That’s an  _ a _ .  We’re working on  _ e _ .  Do it again.”  Eventually she’d had enough.  Rey wasn’t sure exactly what she’d said, really; but she thought the words “petted” and “pampered” might have exited her mouth, possibly followed by “arrogant” and “Some of us didn’t have the advantage of growing up in the family scriptorium!”  

 

His face had gone a bit white and red at that.  It was ridiculous how beautiful he still was even when obviously losing his temper; she was reasonably certain that her own face had turned an unattractive shade of scarlet or purple.  And yet he’d still finished the lesson, with a careful and now unfortunately icy patience. She’d have been thoroughly disgusted with him; but once she’d calmed down enough to feel it, that tiny, almost imperceptible thread of connection was still there, and it gave her...anger, certainly, but...panic?  And she felt lonely; as though she were back in the middle of the sea, but there was no one else on the vessel, just the ghost of her on a ship out of control. That wasn’t hers, that feeling; Rey wanted nothing more than to break the shell around Benedictus, but she had Finn, she knew she wasn’t alone.

 

She’d decided to take a walk; the mix of feelings inside her, even after she was far enough away to know they were all hers, were faintly nauseating.  Rey hated having to be someone else all the time, even if she knew it was a necessary deception; it had been easier on the road, where she could be herself at least once in a while, and always, when they were alone and she could talk to Finn.  But as herself, she wouldn’t be able to stay; and then Benedictus would never know who she really was. Taking a walk was definitely better than that. She hadn’t really had a destination in mind, but wandering the abbey grounds wasn’t a bad idea; the quick tour Brother Dismus had given them had mostly been the inside, the buildings of the abbey.

The sounds of horses didn’t concern her much, or the voices of various brothers going about their business; but as she passed by a fenced-in bit of grass she caught Finn’s laugh and heard him say “Yes, that’s very good, you’re a fine girl.”  That definitely merited a closer look. Rey followed the sound and found Finn showering a young mare with praise. He told her how beautiful she was, how well she was doing, and thanked her lavishly for doing as he’d asked. It was...arresting.  

He was back in his trousers and shirt, which Rey liked very much.  It reminded her of the day they’d met; she’d been irritated and fascinated together at the time, but really there was no way to know whether she’d have been under the wheels of that wagon.  As annoyed as she’d been to find herself on the ground, it was the first time he’d put his arms around her; she hadn’t yet realized how important that could and would be.

And...she could see him better; Rey had always liked the way he moved.  It was a joy to watch as he gentled the mare until she understood what he wanted; Finn feinted left and right, guiding and driving the mare, laughing as she alternately balked and followed him, until she began to get the idea.  Rey had no idea what he was trying to do, but he seemed to be doing it well. She leaned her arms on the fence to watch, feeling much happier than she had when she’d started walking.

Rey didn’t know what had spooked the mare.  Brothers walked past here and there, other horses were outdoors enjoying some exercise; she’d heard the now-familiar squealing bugle of the Abbot’s stallion.  Whatever it was, the mare shied, dancing sideways and lifting her front feet to threaten the air in protest. Finn didn’t hesitate; Rey had seen him calming a frightened horse before. It was easier if you covered their eyes with the nearest soft cloth to hand; which, in this case, happened to be his shirt.  

It was only a few moments, as he murmured to the mare and stroked her neck; but it was enough to stop Rey’s breath. She had a new and altogether different mix of feelings as she watched the muscle flex and move under his skin; still confusing, but these were entirely her own.  She noted absently that his clothes were a little looser than they’d been; he hadn’t been as used to little food and long walks as she had, Rey supposed. She was faintly but definitely disappointed when, having settled the mare, he retrieved his shirt. 

“Pardon me, have you got a moment?”  The question startled Rey as she watched Finn lead the mare back to her stall.  She turned to see an unfamiliar brother looking at her in polite inquiry. He was her own height, more or less, of a slight build so far as she could tell, with very short fair hair and blue eyes set off by the startling red of his beard.  In his hands he carried a very strange object; it looked like a helmet made of woven straw or reeds, and smelled, oddly, of honey and very slightly of dung.

“Yes of course.  How can I help you, Brother…?”  It would be nice to be able to help someone, and some less frustrating work might be exactly what she needed.

“Oh, of course, where are my manners? I’m Brother Callum.”  There was the hint of a buzzing, musical accent to his Latin that Rey had never before heard.  “I’ve just arrived here yesterday morning, mind you, from Aberdeen, to tend the abbey’s hives...to see to the bees.  I’m told their former keeper has gone to his rest some months ago, God rest his soul...oh! My condolences. And I am pleased to meet you, naturally…?”

Rey was charmed; he was the first person she’d ever met that was more naturally polite than Finn.  “I’m Brother Reymund. I’m only recently arrived myself, so I’m afraid I’ve never met the abbey’s beekeeper.  But I’d be happy to help in any way that I can.” It was true, she found. Brother Callum seemed pleasant and...undemanding, somehow.

“Very good, then, we’ll sort out the hives in short order, no doubt.”  He extended a hand, then turned pink as he realized it was covered in a mixture of honey, soot, possibly dung, and what looked like cobwebs.  “Oh dear.”

Rey was unfazed.  Once you’d scrubbed a privy, everything else seemed delightful.  She shook the hand with a smile.

Beekeeping turned out to be much more interesting than she would have suspected.  The object Brother Callum was carrying was a hive, the house for the fat black bees and golden, fuzzy, bumbling creatures Rey was more used to seeing alike.  This one was empty and Brother Callum had been cleaning it. Evidently one must herd the bees away with smoke, which definitely made this a job for two people. 

Once they’d both covered themselves in a strange, oily paste, they began.  Brother Callum explained that Brother Lorcan (“a fine fellow, most obliging, the infirmarian, to help me with this on such short notice, I’m certain he has other work, and he said he didn’t mind a bit that he’d have to share his cell with me as well”) had made up the paste of fenugreek, a decoction of mallow, and…

Rey chimed in with “Olive oil!  That I recognize; olives are very common where I lived.  But what is it for?”

 

Brother Callum was happy to explain.  “It helps to keep us from being stung, should any stray occupants return as we work; but because of the oil, it also helps us to handle the honeycombs so that we can harvest what’s here.  Watch closely, the proper technique is important.” To Rey’s surprise, he put the container of the remaining paste to his lips and...drank some? No, a moment later he spat the paste into one of the hives.  She watched him for a few seconds, then followed suit with the next hive; she was just as glad to spit out the paste, it tasted very strange.

They began harvesting honey; Brother Callum was a font of information; how to tell the best honey from that which should be kept for other purposes than food (he said some of the honey would even go to Brother Lorcan, as it could be effective in the treatment of cuts and wounds and as a binding agent for poultices), how to feed young bees a mix of wine and honey, with leaves scattered in it to give them a place to alight.  He even told her the words to say when handling a swarm of bees. 

“They’re not strictly to God’s way of thinking, I suppose, but I’ve never known them to do any harm; the words are traditional, and the bees seem to like them….Never in distress or fear/fly away and gone from here/Be mindful of me where I stand/As all should be of life and land...it’s a charm, really, more or less, but I think we should observe the old traditions alongside the new and preserve all the right ways together, don’t you?”  He smiled shyly at her, obviously enthused and fond of his subject.

Rey could only agree.  Before they’d finished, she’d found herself agreeing to help Brother Callum on a regular basis.  It was good work, rewarding; she liked watching the little round bees as they busied themselves going to and fro from the flowers to their home, tiny legs and furred bodies dusted with gold.  She wanted to learn more; which flowers made for the best honey, which the bees preferred (purple flowers seemed to be a favorite; she smiled, thinking of the ribbon still curled in her belt pouch, waiting to be worn), and anything Brother Callum wanted to teach, really.

They were still talking bees as they headed in for the evening meal; in winter, cakes made of raisins and barley and a bit of savory would tide the bees over when food was scarce, which sounded frankly delicious to Rey.  She asked Brother Callum what had made him travel all the way here from Scotland; she should have known better, given what had brought Finn and herself here, really it was none of her business. She regretted the question almost immediately after asking it, because Brother Callum did not hesitate to answer as Finn joined them at the table.  Rey could see Brother Benedictus at another table nearby; he did not move to join them, of course. After their earlier argument she was just as glad, for now.

Introductions having been got out of the way, Brother Callum’s enthusiasm was severely diminished; the guileless blue eyes dimmed with sorrow. “I’ve been at Aberdeen Monastery all my life; but...I couldn’t stay.  One of the brethren, he...well, he went mad.” A movement at the corner of her eye proved to be Finn, who had flinched at the word. 

“That’s the only way to describe it.  Brother Malcolm was always a little odd.  He wasn’t much for day to day conversation; he said mostly people had only ever caused him pain.  He preferred the company of the hares in our hutches, and he was a bit strange-looking, too, with a mix of dark and rufous hair, almost like a calico cat.”  He smiled, a little, as he remembered. Evidently it hadn’t occurred to him that his own appearance might be memorable. As he smiled Rey noticed the faint line of a scar disappearing under the red of his beard.

“But even with all that, he was my friend; he would talk to me about the best food and care for his charges, and he would let me talk endlessly to him about bees.  We both wanted to do our best, to do it right, you see. And he was very fond of honey.” Brother Callum’s voice was a bit choked. 

“And he was just reading, one day, quietly by himself, as he usually preferred; it was a Bestiary, I remember, he liked it because there was an illustration of a hare in one of the illuminations even though there were none in the text. It had come to us from somewhere here in England...and earlier that same day he’d been showing me the section on bees.  He leapt up suddenly and began shouting about…”, here he glanced about before continuing in a whisper…”a  _ demon,  _ and tried to…”   He had to stop and compose himself before continuing. Rey looked at Finn; she wasn’t sure either of them wanted to hear the rest; Finn was beginning to look a little gray, the muscles in his jaw tightening as Brother Callum spoke again.

“He turned his knife on us, on  _ me,  _ and others; and when we tried to help him, eventually...on himself.  Even the manuscript had to be destroyed. There was…the blood...” Brother Callum put his face in his hands, his voice muffled as he continued to speak.  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this; it would have been enough to say I needed a change, wouldn’t it, but you  _ did  _ ask, and it seemed only proper to answer…”  There were a few rough, hitching noises from behind his hands.  Rey looked at Finn to see him as appalled as she was, as they each put a hand on one of Brother Callum’s shoulders; neither of them had expected a story like this.

They both fell over each other to apologize, but it seemed to have helped, some, to tell the story; Brother Callum seemed to be of a naturally sunny disposition, and Rey peppered him with questions about bees (with Finn as their genuinely interested audience) until he was restored to some semblance of calm.  She looked around the refectory to see whether anyone else had been disturbed. The brothers were mostly talking amongst themselves or listening to the lector; but her eyes locked with those of Brother Benedictus, who’d gone white as bone. Rey hadn’t had much luck talking to Benedictus, or really, any at all;  so she tried to put everything she wanted to say into her eyes as she looked at him, all the frustration and longing and fear and understanding. But he only stood, abruptly, and left the refectory, looking for all the world as though he were being hunted.

…

Finn had discovered that he loved to listen to Brother Benedictus read.  Normally he would have been excited at the prospect of learning a new language.  And he did have the periodic urge to stop the reading and ask to compare the letters and words, to ask Benedictus what the original translation had been, to work on the Greek language itself.  But he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the story; this resonant, affecting story about a man who just wanted to go home. Perhaps when they read it a second time. If he got the chance.

It was...soothing, in a completely different way than working with horses or brushing Bastian had been, to just sit and not have to think, to not have any work to do.  The abbey’s library was surprisingly comfortable; it was meant for the enjoyment of books already written. Benedictus seemed content for now just to read, and Finn let the deep voice wash over him like the sound of the sea, heard from a safe place on shore.

He did wonder why Brother Benedictus had started a fair way into the volume; but it felt like the beginning of Odysseus’ story, trapped there on an island far away from everything he had known.  From the moment he heard “He cannot make his way back to his country”, Finn had been swept up in the tale. He’d found himself caught in memory of all his travels; “the scent of citrus and of brittle pine” and “It was full of wings...the gulls” had Benedictus giving him such an odd look that he said...something, about the descriptive power of the author’s prose.  He’d shivered at the “wine-dark sea”, this “vast and terrifying gulf”, and smiled to think how Rey would love the glowing description of the Phaeacian orchards and their delicious-sounding fruits.

Today they were almost ready to finish one of the books inside this book and Finn was hoping to forget what he’d heard in the refectory, if only for a little while.   Benedictus still maintained an unnatural distance between them, but occasionally he, too, forgot himself enough to half-smile at the words or put a finger to his lips as he considered possible translations.  Finn was enjoying watching Benedictus lose himself in the story; and then he himself was lost in it, and closed his eyes to let the other man’s voice fill his senses and the words make images in his mind. The poet was singing, and Odysseus was weeping, and only one of all the men there had noticed his grief.  

And Alcinous was kind, and wanted to know why Odysseus was weeping; and that was wonderful, and then he heard “Or else perhaps/you lost the friend who knew you best of all?/A friend can be as close as any brother.”  And suddenly Finn was glad that it was the end of the book within a book and time to retire to bed, because he was his now-open eyes were stinging and he was only precariously in control of himself; he was thinking about Brother Callum’s story, and back to his own helplessness in the face of Novenario’s fall.  He knew just then  _ precisely _ how Odysseus must feel; disguised, homeless, so close to being recognized but perhaps not close at all, and mourning a friend who’d been as close as a brother. 

…

Ben had barely made it through their reading today.  He’d been enjoying the reading very much; it was meant to be lessons in Greek, but Brother Finn was  _ living  _ this story.  Ben hadn’t really thought much about reading out loud, he’d always been more interested in writing the words.  But the sighs and gasps, smiles and wide eyes of the man beside him (Ben wasn’t sure whether Brother Finn was aware of them) as he read were quickly making this one of his favorite times of day.  The only thing that marred his enjoyment was having to always be conscious of where they both were; but it was important, he knew, that no one get too close.

Even today, after the refectory, it had been a distraction from his own unpleasant thoughts; until he’d reached the end of this part of the story.  What on earth had he said, to make Brother Finn look so stricken? Until then, he’d been enjoying the story as he usually did; he’d even closed his eyes, the better to listen.  But at the last lines, his eyes had flown open, and they were full of some deep pain. It had been hard, not to reach out, not to ask. And Ben’s own thoughts had flown back to the evening meal, and the sound of another man’s pain.

_ It was his work. _  There had been a lot of talking in the refectory; but Ben had gotten into the habit of listening to Brothers Finn and Reymund as they spoke together.  It felt...closer, even as he knew he was pushing them away. He’d heard Brother Callum’s story, as he thought most of the other brothers hadn’t; and he’d  _ recognized  _ Callum’s description of the illustrations.  He ought to recognize them, he’d drawn them himself; and he’d even gone looking for hares on the grounds so he could get the angle of their ears down in his mind, because he’d simply felt an urge to include one.  

Had that been his own thought?  Had it been the demon’s? Was the taint in his work spreading, reaching out beyond these walls, driving men mad?  Which were his own thoughts and work, and which were messages meant to wound, to kill? There would be no sleep. He’d known that from the moment he’d heard Brother Callum’s story, as soon as he’d realized there had been death and there was grief and it was his fault.  How was he to reconcile the work when it was damnation and salvation all at the same time?

It was the sound that got his attention.  Ben couldn’t imagine at first what could be making that sound, an eerie soft keening, until he realized it was a  _ who.   _ Brother Finn was still sleeping, but the sound was his; and tears were slipping from the corners of his eyes, trailing across his face and into his hair, as he slept curled on his side, arms wrapped around his knees.  

Do something.  He should do something.  But what could he do? He was poison, a monster, and he could bring nothing but pain.  Trapped as he was with the demon clawing at his soul, he’d already wrought havoc on a man he’d never met; how much worse would it be to watch it happen to someone he knew and admired, to destroy up close, with a touch?  

A thought, a tendril of dread, snaked its way through him.  What if it had already started? Brother Finn spent hours each day with Ben, looking at his work; what if Ben was already driving him to madness, all unknowing?   And yet; if he only stood and watched, he might go mad himself, and he would never be the kind of man who deserved redemption. 

Ben approached the sleeping Brother Finn with caution; he’d thrown off his blanket, it seemed, in his distress.  That he could do. He could do that much. Ben drew the blanket back over the other man, smoothing it over him as he slept.  He seemed to relax a little, as though he no longer had to wrap himself around the hurt; but the broken sounds continued.  _ Do something.   _ But what? 

Ben thought back to the evening, before the words, whatever they’d been, that had upset Brother Finn so much; when he’d been still, eyes closed, to better take in the story as Ben spoke.  And back, again, to his penance, alone in his cell, and the comfort he’d taken at the sound of other voices; just knowing that his warrior and angel were with him, that someone knew his pain and called his name.  He’d known he wasn’t alone then, even if he wondered what had become of them now. What had he been doing when he heard them? Praying. He could do that. That much was in his power. 

“ _ Pater noster qui es in coelis, _

_ sanctificetur nomen tuum; _

_ adveniat regnum tuum, _

_ fiat voluntas tua,  _

_ sicut  in coelo et in terra. _

_ Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, _

_ et dimitte nobis debita nostra,  _

_ sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. _

_ et ne nos inducas in tentationem _

_ sed libera nos a malo  Amen. _ _ ” _

The Pater Noster hadn’t been much help to him then; but Ben very much wanted forgiveness for any harm he might be doing to this man; and they could both stand to be delivered from evil.  Three times he repeated the prayer, as three times he’d heard his own name that night. The sounds began to abate, Brother Finn’s face beginning to relax into true sleep again. Ben found his own face was wet.  At least he’d done something, even if it wasn’t much. He looked down at the other man as he turned to go back to his own sleepless bed. “I’m sorry. But I’m here. I’m here.”

He’d been wrong; he found he could sleep, after all.  Just on the point of drifting off, he thought he’d heard a murmur from the other side of the room, in the thick, drowsy voice of one still asleep: 

“Here...Amen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the information on medieval beekeeping I gleaned from a *very* informative article at medievalists.net,  
> so credit where credit is due. I found the article fascinating and engaging, and was directed by the author  
> to an article on the use of honey in wound treatment in the Middle Ages, which was even more so, and I'm hoping  
> @leoba will link those for me because I'm hopeless (as well as the bestiary on which Ben's ill-fated work is based).  
> Brother Callum's beekeeping charm came from here: http://www.thing.net/~grist/ld/young/ky-chrm.htm,  
> All credit to the creator, I adapted it a bit.


	16. Conflictio, Consolatio, et Consecutio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conflict, Consolation, and Consequences: In which Abbot Luke receives a penance and begins to learn. In which Brother Finn has had enough and is out of sorts, but fortunately not alone. In which Ben feels left out in the cold, and Luke feels trapped in the past. In which we make Brother Ben laugh again, and that’s a very good thing. In which Rey is fierce. And in which...you’ll see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE THE NEW RATING AND TAGS
> 
> Consecutio: consequence, effect, result, event, and oddly, achievement. Consolatio: consolation, comfort, condolences.
> 
> It’s exhausting to be patient. It’s even more so when you’re trying hard to be patient and not seeing any progress. Finn has forgotten to worry about himself. Ben is worrying about everything. And Rey just wants very much for them both to be happy. There are bound to be some misunderstandings; this is new for all of them. And Lorcan is just watching it all and shaking his head.

“...Brother Lorcan?”

 

Lorcan turned to see who’d spoken.  Oh, _very_ interesting.  It was the girl in monks’ clothing, looking around the room as though she wanted to touch, smell, or God help her, _taste_ everything in it.

 

“You would be Brother Reymund, then?  And what can I do for you? Are you ill?”  It would certainly present an interesting challenge if she were; he wasn’t at all sure how he would feign that level of staggering ignorance.

 

Her eyes went wide and she actually stepped back a bit.  “No, no, I’m not ill. Yes, I’m Brother Reymund. Hello.”  She put out a hand and flushed darkly when she realized it was full of honeycomb.  “Oh. Um. Brother Callum sent me to give this to you. It wasn’t as good for eating, he said, not clear enough to have good flavor, but it could be used for wounds?  How does that work? You know Brother Callum, don’t you, he said? He’s new. So am I. You knew that. Is that beer? You use beer as a medicine? Oh, sorry.” She flushed again, extending the dripping honeycomb.  Lorcan suppressed a chuckle. It was a wonder she was managing to to keep this up, with a face so open as hers.

 

“Here, put that in the basket, yes, this one.  I have met Brother Callum; a nice young man, very knowledgeable, we’re sharing a cell, as it happens.  We don’t know exactly how honey helps to heal wounds, but we know that it does. Sometimes when God sends us inspiration, He’s a little short on the explanatory details.”  She had a fine laugh, this one; good, she’d need a sense of humor.

 

“Myself,”  he continued, “I think the goodness, the properties of the flowers and herbs that the bees love so much make their way into the honey.  And yes, occasionally beer is used in medicines, usually to contain and mask other substances; especially those that taste terrible. I had occasion to use some just before the two of you arrived; Be--well, that would be telling tales out of school and not my own to boot.”  

  
Odd, that; usually others were drawn to tell him things, not the other way round.  But, still, _An té a thabharfas scéal chugat tabharfaidh sé dhá scéal uait._ A person who brings a story to you may bring two away from you.  And this slip of a girl most definitely had a story. Best watch his tongue.  Perhaps she hadn’t noticed.

 

Reymund, having deposited the honeycomb, had proceeded to open Lorcan’s jar of lavender and was blissfully inhaling the scent.  She guiltily set the lid back on at his raised eyebrow. “Sorry! I just love the color, and I know this flower, and it smells wonderful.  Brother Callum says the bees are especially fond of it; I’m enjoying working with the bees. It’s nice to learn what to do for a creature that can’t tell you what it needs; so you can help.”

 

Lorcan wondered if she knew how right she was.  He had a thought. “It seems as though you might need more to occupy those idle hands, Brother Reymund;” he smiled at her to take the sting out of the mild rebuke, “as not all of the jars in this room are to be opened or inhaled by just anyone.  Eggs, their shells and their contents, are sometimes part of healing as well; I keep a flock of chickens just for the purpose, for the infirmarium. Of late I haven’t had as much time to tend to them as I’d like; perhaps you could be of some help there?”

 

She was already nodding.  Kind and helpful, too, it seemed.  All of that would serve her well for what might lie ahead; a necessity, even.  “I’d love to! Only...the abbot would need to give his permission, wouldn’t he?  Could you…?” She didn’t look happy at the idea of approaching the abbot. He couldn’t really blame her.

 

Lorcan smiled.  “I will be sure to make Abbot Luke well aware that you’ll be working with my chickens.  We’re old friends, he and I. He’s been known to help himself, on occasion.” Well, he would be.  Luke’s penance was still to be given, and he hadn’t made any progress in talking to his nephew or mending that hurt; it wouldn’t do him any harm to tend to creatures that couldn’t name what they needed, either.  Yes, indeed. “Now here, you’ve just time to wash the honeycomb off your hands before the midday meal.”

 

…

 

After they’d eaten, it was time for her lessons again.  She and Finn needed to talk about what Brother Callum had said, but there was never any time, and privacy was in short supply; they’d finally figured out that no one was likely to bother them down in the crypt here, and agreed to meet there after the evening meal.  

 

Rey was not looking forward to the lessons this time.  No, she wasn’t. Yes, she was. She was not happy about the idea of another superior look down that long face of his. But all the same it was the only time she got to see his face, or any of the rest of him, for that matter; and THAT she’d found she needed like water after a long, thirsty walk.  And she’d thought, back in the infirmarium, that Brother Lorcan had been about to say Benedictus. Had he been ill? And Brother Caius and Brother Radbod had said he hadn’t been eating; what had happened to him? Did that have something to do with why he didn’t, wouldn’t know them?

 

It was exactly as she’d thought.  She cudgeled her mind and memory and tried to warp her fingers into the proper shapes and felt clumsy and inept, and he corrected her; not coolly as he’d done the last time, nor cleverly, as he’d started.  He was mechanical and distant, as though he were thinking about something else; and if she had to go through all of this to get at the thing in her head that was all about him anyway, it was all for him, the least he could do was pay attention.  So she stopped trying at all and just doodled a few flowers instead, and that, of course, he noticed.

 

“Those...aren’t letters.  Is that a flower? A tangled string?”  And there was the superior look; along with a raised eyebrow as a bonus; and the eyebrow was beautiful and so was he and it was making her angry.  Underneath, somewhere in her mind, in her belly, was that tiny thread of whatever bound them together, and it gave her...worry. Consuming, gnawing worry, and irritation, and that last was not acceptable, because she was doing her best and now she was very angry, and somewhere inside she found that connection, she didn’t know how, and grasped it, who knew with what, and PULLED.  

 

There was a startled intake of breath beside her, but his face showed only confusion, and he said nothing; and into her mind, behind her eyes where the images always were, there came something new.  Hands; his hands, drawing shapes and lines, and feeling for just a moment that they were atop hers to guide them, and her fingers began to itch with the need to put pen to paper. It was not a feeling with which Rey was familiar, but there it was; if he wanted letters, she’d GIVE him letters.  

 

Lines began to appear on the parchment and Rey found that she was making them.  An oval shape appeared, too big to be a letter, and four shapes below it, oh, those were legs, and now she was directing the lines and this was her work and she knew what it was going to be.  A hedgehog began to appear under her fingers, small snout caught mid-twitch, black eyes full of mischief, quills standing out in defense because it was doing its best too. And she squinted at the parchment, her tongue was poking out the side of her mouth and she didn’t care, and as she’d seen in some of the books Benedictus had shown her, there were grapes all over the hedgehog’s back.

 

There was a sound beside her, she wasn’t sure what it was and right now it didn’t matter, because she’d written a letter on each grape, and it was giving her immense satisfaction to stab each letter-laden fruit onto a quill and imagine the juice running out of them.  She was using probably rather more force than was required to operate the quill, and now she’d drawn the juice running down from each grape like blood from a wound, and that was much better. There was that sound again, now it was a sort of deep, surprised gurgle; and she looked up to see Brother Benedictus _laughing,_ a flash of teeth and a warm, wonderful chuckle, and maybe it was going to be all right.  

 

“Well done,” he said, still laughing, just as Finn came into the scriptorium for his own lesson, “I believe that’s the best _a_ and _e_ you’ve made yet.  I had no idea you could draw, but let’s try to keep the letters on the ruled lines from here on, and drawings in the margins where they belong, shall we?” His dark eyes were brightened with humor, like fallen leaves dappled with sunlight, and it was hard to look away, but she had Finn’s eyes to look at next and that was something she loved to do too. So she did look into them, and they were beautiful, different, like rich, new-turned earth; then before Finn began to set out his things she thought she’d seen the smallest flash of hurt.  And there was no time.

 

…

 

Brother Finn was out of sorts.   That was worrying. Ben hadn’t done enough, wasn’t enough; or else he was the problem.  They were combining the Odyssey with illustration today, as Brother Finn had told Ben he had something he needed to do after the evening meal.  A brief, hot surge of anger went through him, just as it had before Brother Reymund had started drawing. Ben was not at all sure why he was feeling anger; he had no reason, really, and Brother Finn was welcome to do as he liked with his time.  He seemed to be producing an illustration without much help from Ben today, at any rate. Ben was reading the words of the text as Brother Finn drew, he’d begun after he’d heard “we called aloud/three times to each of our poor lost companions”, and started to draw the storm as the poet described it.

 

Under Brother Finn’s hand, the stylus sketched out a ship; and around it a hungry sea. He could see the “terrible typhoon” emerging onto the page, the slicing lines of rain and jagged forks of lightning coming down as “Night fell from heaven and seized us”; the ship looked very small, its sails “ripped three times by blasting wind”.  Ben stopped reading to watch; Brother Finn still had much to learn, but even so the emotion in the image was palpable. Anger and sorrow and fear were in the lines, and the scene looked oddly familiar. A man appeared, caught in the act of being swept overboard, the figure’s shape was simple, just a suggestion, but the despair in it was clear.  It was easy to imagine the crew of this ship “exhausted, eating our hearts with pain”.

 

He had no notes, no suggestions for Brother Finn today; the sketch had sped his pulse with a sense of danger even as it tugged at his heart with sorrow.  There were things he could have said, techniques and planning he could have suggested; but he could only hope that whatever dark mood seemed to have overtaken the other man, Ben himself hadn’t been the cause.  They parted still unsettled when it was time for prayers, then the evening meal. He was going to need a long walk and a think if he had any prayer of knowing what to do next.

 

…

 

The chickens were lovely.  Lorcan’s chickens were black; proud and sleek, and bigger than one might have expected from the look of them, with pale skins under their close, dark feathers.  He’d said they were called La Fleche chickens, it meant the Arrow; why, he didn’t know. The cock was proud and wary, as they generally were; but it was very little trouble to divest the hens of some of their eggs.  

 

It was a bit of a shock to see the abbot himself in the henyard, however.  Abbot Luke didn’t say a word; and Rey was too surprised to find any. He did the work competently enough; it obviously wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with farm chores.  But his hunched shoulders and grim face did not invite conversation.

 

The cock evidently didn’t care for his manner either; after Abbot Luke stomped just a fraction too heavily around the coop while cleaning it, the rooster flapped its way up to eye level and crowed angrily at him, giving a good look at its spurs and slightly mad eyes.  The abbot’s expression was full of thunder for just an instant; then he shot a look Heavenward and the temper drained out of his face with a sigh. He worked more quietly after that, and paid attention to how his work complemented her own.

 

The soft thanks Abbot Luke gave Brother Reymund as he left were the only words she’d had from him all the while; that, and he said he’d deliver the eggs to Lorcan himself; they needed to discuss a few things.  She was just as glad; it would give her a chance to fetch a bucket of water from the odd eight-sided tower where the taps were, and have at least a chance at washing the dirt of the coop off herself in the guest quarters before she went to eat.

 

Brother Dismus caught up with Rey on the way to the refectory.  He was a bit round about the middle to be hurrying like that, she thought, so she slowed down to wait for him.  “Brother Reymund...have the guest quarters been satisfactory for you?” He looked worried; she didn’t think that was his real question, but it was what he’d asked.

 

And she had an easy answer for that one.  “Of course! I’ve been wanting to thank you for welcoming Brother Finn and myself; you’ve been so kind, we already feel at home.”

 

He turned a bit pink at the compliment as he continued. “There was something else I wanted to ask you...well.  You and Brother Finn, you’ve been working with young Benedictus, haven’t you?” The pitch of his voice was growing higher, she thought with anxiety, until it was almost a whistle.  He settled himself, his kind, round face still worried. “How is he? Is the work going well? Is he getting enough to eat?” He flushed, his ears turning red. “Apologies. Some of us, the brothers, we’ve known him since he was a child, but he’s been keeping himself to himself, since the horses, the fire…and we were just hoping you or Brother Finn might know.”

 

Rey was bewildered.  “I don’t, we haven’t shared a meal; but he hasn’t missed any of his work with me, and he seems well enough.  I’m sorry, I don’t know him well enough to be able to tell you.” That wasn’t true, and yet it was; and it hurt to say.  And this brother had known Benedictus as a child? And there had been a fire, and something about horses? Now _that_ was something she and Finn needed to understand.  She had so many questions; and no reason to ask any of them that would make sense to Brother Dismus.  “He’s been very patient.” That was true, to a point.

 

Dismus looked embarrassed.  “I see. Thank you for indulging me.  He had the very same room that you do, when he came here; but I suppose he isn’t really my charge any longer.”  Sadness was not an expression that sat naturally on the guest master’s cheerful face. He brightened, smiling at her; with some effort, she thought.  “Go on, hurry along, we don’t want you missing any meals either, just look at you. If I’m late, it isn’t likely to do me any harm.” His eyes twinkled at her now, and he patted his belly as he laughed. “Go,” he repeated, shooing her toward the refectory.  There was nothing for it but to obey. All the things she could learn, and nothing she could say about why she wanted to know.

 

Finn wasn’t himself at all.  He pushed his food about on the plate, but he wasn’t really eating anything.  His eyes were tired and his shoulders were tense. It might just have been the tale they’d heard from Brother Callum; but she’d wondered, earlier today, whether there was something else.  He’d been smiling as he came into the scriptorium, but that had disappeared, and Rey didn’t understand why. And there was no way to ask him, not here. She was getting very tired of questions and answers that wouldn’t meet in the middle.

 

…

 

He couldn’t do it.  Rey was looking at him, and a short distance away he could _feel_ Benedictus looking at him, and still he could only think about the way they’d been looking at each other.  He and Rey ate together, they spoke whenever they could, but they were never alone. He missed the easy way they’d been with each other on their journey here and the comfort they’d taken in one another; here she wasn’t Rey, his strong, clever companion and partner in the mission that drove them; she was Brother Reymund, and Benedictus saw more of her... _him_ than Finn had any excuse to do.

 

And he’d been working so carefully and patiently to thaw the cold isolation around Brother Benedictus, waiting for some sign that he was making progress in cracking that shell; and here Rey had already got him laughing alongside her without any apparent effort at all.  He had no right, none, to be angry; Benedictus was the reason they were here, and surely his trusting Rey, or anything either of them could do to get closer to the business of saving him, was a good thing. They were in this together. But he was just so _tired_ , and yes, angry, even if he had no right, and he couldn’t do it, couldn’t sit and talk and eat with both their eyes on him and last night’s dream echoing in his head.

 

“We’ll need candles,” he said quietly, before he knew he’d been about to speak.  “I’ll go and get some, so we’ll have light, and I’ll meet you there.” He stood, leaving his meal on the table; perhaps it would do someone else some good.  He thought he heard a breath as he turned, as though she’d been about to speak, but he just couldn’t, and he left the refectory with both their eyes still on him, he knew.  

 

Candles were easy enough to obtain, and Finn took his satchel everywhere that he could, given its contents;  so when he’d made his way down into the abbey’s crypt, the parchment and ink in his own personal supply were ready at hand.  He’d set candles on any surface he thought would hold one, so there was a fair amount of light, and he was sketching to no particular purpose.  Images appeared one after another; here a snail, eyes dark against its pale skin, shell darker still, hiding place and defense against the world; and facing it, a knight, slender and beardless, laughing, gallant and daring as he worked to crack the disguise.  The knight would have hazel eyes, Finn knew.

 

Here under his fingers an unfamiliar monk took shape;  his eyes were wary and seemingly bruised, a neat dark beard and mustache encircled his mouth and chin.  Atop his head, though, was an unruly thatch of hair that Finn knew would be a strange mix of colors, the red of autumn leaves and the black of a still pool of water under a night sky.  And his eyes...were simply mad, their color lost in the dilated black, bloodshot whites showing all around as he stared at Finn from the parchment. None of the images matched the ones in his mind, not really; there was too much work ahead of him for that.  But here, he knew, was Brother Malcolm; he was nothing like Novenario, but it was there, that same look, in his eyes.

 

He heard Octavius, before he saw Rey.  The click of canine claws on stone was distinctive, but her footsteps were quiet and hesitant, not like her normal confident stride at all; that was his fault, he knew, and Finn was instantly sorry.  Which did nothing to change anything else he was feeling; what was wrong with him? He looked up, then continued to sketch. A hare, eyes round, cowered away from the mad-eyed monk. It was wearing the robe of a Benedictine.

 

“Finn?”  She stood looking over his shoulder at the parchment.  She was in his light, though she was carrying one of her own.   But she was here, and his heart leapt to know it. Rey moved around in front of him and sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged with Octavius now in her lap.  “What’s wrong? I know there’s something the matter, I _know_ you.  I was afraid, I could see, that it was hurting you, to hear Brother Callum’s story, but there was no time, there’s never any time, and there’s something else, isn’t there?  And I _miss_ you, I don’t think I like being a monk; did I...did I do something wrong?”

 

That snapped his head up to look at her.  The last part of that sentence had been muffled; by Octavius, it turned out, as Rey had buried her face in his side.  She hadn’t done anything wrong; and no matter what was wrong with him, she didn’t deserve to be hurt. Finn dropped the parchment and quill and put his arms around them, Rey and Octavius both.  And there she was; it might have been Brother Reymund who’d met him here, but it was his Rey who put her arms around him in return and wept into his shoulder.

 

“You haven’t done anything wrong.  Nothing. We’ve both been trying to do what we came here to do, what’s needed, and it shouldn’t be more difficult now that we’re here, but it is;  and I’m angry, but not with you, or even with him, not really. I missed this too; just being ourselves. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I’m sorry.  But Callum’s story...I _saw_ it.  In my dreams.”

 

He told her.  Not all of it, he couldn’t; but he told her that Novenario had appeared to him, eyes empty of anything that he had been, falling over and over as Finn had bled and mourned.  “And then I saw Brother Malcolm; look.” He showed her the drawing. “Brother Callum was kinder in telling the tale than we knew; he was cut, himself, I saw his face wounded, laid open to the ear.  Brother Malcolm, he hurt a few of them, before he was gone.” He didn’t tell her all of what he’d seen. Malcolm’s going hadn’t been easy; it was as if he were trying to tear at himself, the way he must have been torn apart inside, the madness and the man two halves at war.  Finn had been forced to watch; there was no reason to inflict the same punishment on Rey.

 

“I couldn’t get out; it was happening over and over.  Novenario, Malcolm, Callum, the manuscripts bloodied, and asleep I could _see_ the demon, laughing, in the fire of Novenario’s torch, in the candle while Malcolm was reading, writ small in the work itself, and...I couldn’t get out, I couldn’t wake.”  She was touching his face as he spoke, her eyes full of tears for his pain. “But I heard someone praying; I don’t know who. I know what; it was the Pater Noster, I think, full of forgiveness and deliverance from evil, and the sound pulled me back from those sights.  Still...it’s a sign, I think, that we’ve been given to show us what will keep happening if we fail; and I’m afraid.”

 

…

 

He’d been holding his own tears back all day; she’d known, even if she hadn’t been sure whether she’d caused them.  It was good to know that she hadn’t hurt him somehow; that he was just as frustrated as she was at their deceptions, their separation, their lack of progress.  The dream, a vision, really, had hurt him; they did, she knew. After a while Finn’s arms slackened around her, and when she looked down at his head on her shoulder, his eyes were closed.  The night he’d had sounded harrowing. She could let him sleep a little, and wake him when the candles started to burn down. There was time. They had a little time.

  
...  
  
Ben had much to consider as he walked.  No one would bother him, in the crypts. No one would ask him questions he couldn’t answer, or offer sympathy he couldn’t accept.  Everyone who dwelled in this place was dead, and beyond any harm he might do to them. He was free to think, the metal lantern giving just enough light so that he didn’t stumble, and little enough that he could hide it in the unlikely event anyone else ventured down here.  And it was safer, the lantern, with its cover; so long as he never set it down. That was important. It was important not to hurt anyone else.

 

Had he already?  The usual talk and easy smiles between the two of them, Brothers Finn and Reymund, had been nowhere in evidence this evening.  Ben had been expecting to be envious as he watched; he generally was. It was getting better, easier, for Ben to work with them, to _be_ with each of them, despite his best efforts; Brother Reymund had made him laugh today.  Ben hadn’t been expecting that.

 

He’d been expecting the lesson to be unpleasant; they’d argued during the last one and Brother Reymund had said some not entirely inaccurate things.  It was true; Ben had been arrogant and unkind. But instead of being angry or difficult, Reymund had been clever, and funny, and...surprising. He was unexpectedly talented, even if writing still wasn’t easy.  Ben hadn’t stopped to think about where Brother Reymund might have come from and why no one had taught him to read; and he’d almost forgotten how good it was to share a laugh with someone.

 

Brother Finn had surprised him too, but not in the same way; Ben had grown to depend on spending time with someone who shared his love of words.  Even if he had to be careful, always careful not to get too close, he knew that Brother Finn loved learning words, listening to them, and writing them as much as Ben did himself.  But today the words hadn’t brought either of them any joy, and losing even that small connection had been more disappointing than he would have imagined it could be. And again there was that small pulse of dread; had he somehow damaged this kind, gifted man?  Had Ben not been careful enough? It was harder to know what to do, now that his guardians had gone and he was alone.

 

There was FIRE in the crypt.  There shouldn’t be anything down here but his own dark thoughts, cobwebs, and the dead.  A fire would have nowhere to go but UP, to the unsuspecting brothers above. Pulse hammering in his ears, Ben checked and double-checked the lantern in his hand.  It was safe. So what…? He shut the lantern’s cover, leaving only a sliver of light, so he could see better where the fire might be.

  
There were candles everywhere, stuck on most of the available surfaces.  That was careless. He should…Ben stopped mid-thought. They were here. Brothers Finn and Reymund were here in the crypt, where he’d gone to be alone.  Why were they here? And that thought, too, fell aside. There in the candlelight was the easy comfort he hadn’t seen earlier. Brother Finn was sleeping, Ben thought, his head on Brother Reymund’s shoulder.  They both looked content, and safe, and God help him, Ben _wanted_ that, with a hunger that was close to physical pain.

 

He couldn’t have it.  They’d only been here a short while, and already Brother Finn was losing...something; a spark, the passion for learning and ready smile that Ben had seen when they’d arrived.  Next would be Reymund, he knew, the bright eyes and fierce challenge, another fragile thing he might destroy.

 

Only his angel and warrior were strong enough; and these two were all too obviously flesh.  They ate, and slept, and hurt; and they’d come with lies and said nothing. He must have made some small sound, there where he’d flattened himself against the wall, lantern sheltered behind his hand; there was a sharp bark from a shadow that turned out to be Octavius.  Ben fled back to the floor above, hurrying as quietly as he could. That glimpse of simple peace was imprinted in his mind; as though he wandered in a snowstorm, holding to himself the memory of warmth.

 

…

 

Octavius, barking at shadows, woke Finn before Rey would have liked.  Still, it must be almost time for prayers, the last ones before they slept; and her arm was going numb.  It was worth it, to see him smile drowsily up at her, before the worry flowed back into his eyes. “How long…”  He shook his head as he began packing up his pens and parchment. “There wasn’t time. We should have been thinking of what to do next.”  

 

Rey shook her head at him in turn, flexing her arm to bring it back to life.  “It’s no good worrying about him if we don’t take care of each other; and we’re no good to him, at any rate, if we don’t.  You needed the rest. You still do. Did you sleep at all, last night?” He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “Not much, I’d guess.”  He was making her angry now too. Ridiculous, both of them. She put a hand to his chest to stop him as he began retrieving the candles.  “STOP. Listen. You’re no less important than he is; and when you can’t remember that, I will, whether you think you need it or not.”

 

Finn blinked in surprise, she supposed at her expression.  She wasn’t angry with him very often, not even now, really; but she wasn’t going to let anyone hurt him, not Benedictus, not even himself.  Any response he might have made, however, was lost in an enormous yawn, which dissolved into a laugh as she raised an eyebrow at him. “I yield, I am defeated.  You’re right. And...thank you. It’s better, when you’re here. But right now, it’s important that we go up to prayers before someone has to come looking for us.”   They checked that all the candles were out, except the two they needed to light the way; and he took her hand to pull her toward the brighter light they knew was waiting ahead.

 

…

 

Lorcan was hauling the last bucket of water through the nave back toward the infirmarium when he saw them leaving the crypt, hand in hand.  They went back to pretending to be nothing more than brothers as soon as they’d stepped out into the light; a pity, that, necessary as it was.  Well. Perhaps that explained the previous trip through, when he’d crossed paths with Benedictus coming from the very same direction, heading for his quarters looking like a stormcloud on legs.  He shook his head, smiling in bemusement and sympathy. It had been a long time, but he still remembered, holy Lord, the _feelings_ .  It might take these poor children longer than he’d thought to get out of their own way.  Still, **_Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna._ **  No matter how long the day, the evening comes.

 

Any amusement vanished once he’d caught better sight of Brother Finn’s face, though.  His eyes were hollow and his steps dragging. That wasn’t going to help anyone. Here he was having himself a reminisce when someone needed him.  Right. Best get to work. They both turned surprised eyes to him as he approached, setting down the bucket.

 

“Evening to you both.  Brother Reymund, off to prayers with you.  Brother Finn, if I’m any judge, it’s nowhere but your bed for you, and it’s my calling to know, isn’t it?  Haven’t been sleeping? I thought as much. Go on with you, then. I’ll bring you something to help.” They looked at each other, then back at him without moving.  Heaven preserve us. “You’ve got your instructions. Scatter!” He clapped his hands, startling them both into motion.

 

Lorcan continued on his way with the bucket.  Valerian, chamomile, lavender; nothing so strong as what Benedictus had needed, just enough to help bring on a night’s dreamless rest, and he’d drop off the tea himself and make sure his directions were followed.  It was a wonder anyone made it to prayers in this place. No matter. There were plenty of fine ways to serve God according to the way He’d made you. He hoped he was proof of that himself, and the Almighty would forgive him any stumbles and disobedience on the way.

 

…

 

Ben pulled the letters out of the back of his book; he was finished with them.  He was angry, now; he _needed_ to be angry.  Anger was better than despair, wasn’t it?  He’d been waiting for help, for allies in his fight; instead he was watching two all too fallible souls take comfort in each other and all the while engaging in deceit.  Anger was the only ally he had. He saw Brother Finn coming down the hall as he left the room, still looking...battered, was the word that came to mind. Never mind that.  He couldn’t afford to care.

 

Abbot Luke was on the point of leaving his office when he arrived.  His eyes went to the letters in Ben’s hand. Stop. Ben took a deep breath, searching for some semblance of calm.  He wasn’t quite that angry. His uncle still had no need to know about the forgery. Not until Ben could discover the reason for himself.  Say something. “You’d asked me to return these when I was finished reading them. At this point I’m reasonably satisfied that their skills are exactly what we expected.  Brother Finn is a perfectly adequate scribe; and we were told to expect nothing from Brother Reymund.” Cold. He was cold; anger tipped in frost.

 

He expected Luke to find some fault with that; he generally did, where Ben was concerned.  But his uncle just looked disappointed, and strangely sad, as he spoke. “I was given to understand that adequate would be an understatement; Brother Finn seemed as though he’d be a fit collaborator in the work, for you, and Brother Reymund a chance to share some of your skills.  I was hoping you’d...never mind.” He looked tired, now; his hand trembled a little as he held the letters. “Go. Take some time. Don’t worry about prayers, tonight; you have my leave.”

 

Ben was puzzled, unsettled, and a little shocked.  That was very unlike Abbot Luke. What had he been about to say?  But he couldn’t afford to care about that either. Unless...how many people at the Abbey might he be hurting?  Luke might not be the most pleasant of men, but he was solid and dependable, a fixture in Ben’s life even if the idea of him discovering the truth was unbearable.  It was frightening to consider whether he, too, might be destroyed in Ben’s wake. Would he be the end of them all?

 

Luke was looking at him, probably wondering why he was still here.  “Yes...thank you.” He wasn’t angry, not any more. There was nothing else to say, after all.  He should go find a story and disappear into it. Something that ended well.

 

…

 

It was useless.  He was trying, damn Lorcan, he _was_.  But it was impossible, standing there, looking at Ben.  His expression was so much like Hannon’s when he was pretending he knew what he was doing, and all that Luke could find was sorrow; he’d been hoping that these new brothers might bring back Ben’s drive and love for the work, to find his way back to the proper path again, but…  

 

All the while he was holding the letters and running his thumb over the seal, Convento de Santa Maria de Moreruela, _that_ seal, and he could barely hear what _he_ was saying, let alone Ben, because there was an entirely different voice in his ears, singing about roses.  The scent of roses and the sound of her voice came to him carried on a warm, dusty wind. **_O Rosa bella, O dolce anima mia_ ** , **_Non mi lassar morire_ ** …   _O lovely rose, O my sweet soul, Do not leave me to die._  

 

She was singing about love and roses, neither of which had ever been his, and he hadn’t noticed when Ben left, and he was half here and half in Spain, in a convent garden.  She’d followed him here, carried in memories embedded in a wax seal, `was nowhere safe? Must he exile himself again?...and God help him, he was weak, but he was trying. Luke looked down, in the present, in Canterbury, to see the pieces of the cracked red wax had fallen to his desk like the dropped petals of a rose.

 

…

 

The room smelled of lavender.  That was odd. Ben was so occupied worrying about who else might be suffering at his hands that at first he only noticed the scent; he didn’t realize there was anyone else in the room until he heard a snore.  Brother Finn was already asleep, sprawled out on his back, a cup on the table next to his bed. Other than the snore, he didn’t stir. Ben suspected Lorcan’s hand at work here. Good. Someone should be doing...something, for Brother Finn; more than Ben could or should do.  Finn looked relaxed; peaceful. The gnawing feeling came again, to have that; peace, and safety.

 

It wouldn’t be tonight.  The book Ben had been reading was still next to the bed; most of it was Ambrose’s work on Psalms, he remembered taking it from the library when he’d been illustrating the Psalms in his own work.  He leafed through the text, noting the dragon standing to claw at some of the letters, eyes dark and fathomless and body seemingly lit by flames. Tonight he was drawn to Alcuin’s part of the text, the Sequence of Saint Michael.   

 

“And at thy prayer God sends/His angels unto men   That the enemy with cunning craft shall not prevail/To do the hurt he craves/To weary Man.”  Yes, that was hopeful. It was insidious, the way the enemy was poisoning Ben’s own craft. But Alcuin seemed to agree that angels would come, to stop the hurt.  He thought back to his own illustration; Michael, wielding a spear? A lance? It had looked, to Ben, as though it might be a staff. “Thou with strong hand didst smite the cruel dragon/And many souls didst rescue from his jaws.”  And Raphael, the healer of those hurts already done…”ease thou our pain/And give us to share/In the joys of the blessed”, was ready at Michael’s side.

 

He hadn’t been conscious of falling asleep.  But there they were; Michael, strong, fierce in defense, merciless in fighting evil, stood before him.  Beside Heaven’s warrior waited Raphael, wings heavy with healing waters, hands gentle to soothe the pain.  And between them...the dragon. Ben had drawn it in the black and gray of moonlit stone, and its scales seemed to absorb what little light there was, covering it with darkness except for the glint of its sharp teeth and the reflected flame that was the only light in its eyes.  

 

As he watched, the darkness of the dragon’s scales seemed to flow out from its body like black ink from a quill.  It seeped over the bright place where they had been and blotted out Heaven’s champions. The dragon’s eyes grew closer and darker until they filled Ben’s vision, until he fell into them and their endless night.  He saw nothing but that blackness for who knew how many heartbeats; and then he was looking out into a different night, his vision curiously narrowed.

 

The world was made of talons and bones.  Huge fangs of stone gouged their way up toward the sky, and at Ben’s feet, the bones of the unremembered were contorted and scattered.  He felt strangely heavy, enclosed; and the scent of metal and blood was everywhere. He reached a hand toward his face and heard the creak and flex of steel as his gauntlets met the eye-slit of the greathelm he now knew he wore.

 

A tilt of his head downward revealed the object clasped in his other hand to be a sword; he swung it experimentally, revelling in the perfect balance and the unexpected strength as he wielded the blade.  Fire sizzled and blazed in its wake; he should have been terrified, but he wasn’t. This was _his_ fire; and it would serve him.  Scaled armor enclosed him; no one could get to him, no one could hurt him in here.  Ben raised his head, to look around him once more, and found himself in the company of knights; his men, at his command.  

 

No, wait.  This wasn’t right; this wasn’t _him_ ; he was a scribe, his only weapons were words and the images they inspired.  But...here he was the master, no longer cowed and hunted, fearful of what might be done all unwilling at his hand, in his name.  Here he was powerful, his own destiny and that of others would lie in the sweep of his will. It was...intoxicating, for one who’d been powerless for so long.  He eyed his soldiers, more than a dozen of them, with pride; they would, he knew, follow him to the ends of the earth.

 

The nearest knight gazed at him in return; he was slender, quick and agile.  Through the slit in his visor, a pair of hazel eyes mirrored his regard, barren of anything but worship.  He stood back to back with another knight whose armor, in the gaps at wrist and throat, revealed glimpses of a darker coloring than his own.  Wait. No. That wasn’t...The second knight shifted his stance, as though alert to some threat, and behind where he had been Ben saw a figure who hadn’t been visible before.  

 

He was small, but not as fragile as he should have seemed; there was more menace than one would have thought possible contained in that slight frame.  Straying from under the edges of his helm Ben could see a few wayward strands of dark hair. He meant, he thought, to cover his eyes, to block out the awareness of what he was seeing; but instead, he found that he’d raised the greatsword in salute, mingled fire and blood crackling up and down its blade.  The knights, as one, raised their weapons to him; then, in unison, they set their blades down on the carrion-covered earth.

 

Each man of his army, one by one, began to remove their helms.  They knelt, each in turn, as they did so, hands to their hearts, eyes raised to his.  And he knew them. Ben knew them all. There were Brothers Patrick and Paul, silent and intent, bereft of their usual fuss and bother; there was Dismus, cheerful face now a mask of devotion and rage.  Brother after brother was revealed to him, eyes devoid of what they’d been. The horror crawling up and down his spine only worsened to see Brothers Finn and Reymund, as he’d known them to be, doff their helms and stare up at him in mindless obedience.  

 

Ben tried to speak, to scream, to protest the wrongness unfolding in front of his eyes, and found he had no voice in this place; he couldn’t even seem to open his mouth.  He raised still-gauntleted hands to remove the greathelm, to warn them away somehow, to show them who he was and make them understand they had to run, to resist, to fight.  But he was trapped, as though helm and armor were forged all apiece; as though there were really nothing behind the mail at all, and his screams went unheard.

 

The smallest of the knights was the last to kneel; he pulled off his helm to set it atop the bones on the ground at Ben’s feet.  Looking down at the helm where it now lay, Ben saw what he hadn’t wanted to see before; a black sleeve, somehow darkened further with the blood that saturated it.  His eyes followed the sleeve to see a familiar graying beard and the dimmed, lifeless eyes of his mother’s twin.

 

The young knight put his mailed fist to his breast with a clang of metal, picked up the red-streaked dagger that lay before him on the soaked earth, and raised his head.  There was an odd sensation at Ben’s own back, of heaviness and something like the swirl of a cloak; and as he saw the tips of black feathers curl from behind him into the corners of his vision, Timothy showed him a feral grin under his empty eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for @HarpiaHarpyja for asking a very interesting question way back in Chapter 7, which has now been answered. Thanks to @leofgyth for accepting urgent manuscript questions and requests with aplomb as always. Thanks to @flypaper-brain for the chickens for Luke’s penance and to both for neverending enthusiasm and encouragement and helping me figure out how our three would figure themselves out. The growing pains are real.
> 
>   
> This is what we think Finn's in-progress illustration of the Malak and the storm of sea looks like. The artist is Sunbug's daughter.


	17. Dissociatio et Decisio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Separation and Decision
> 
> In which Brother Reymund’s hidden talent gets scary, and the decision to masquerade as a monk has consequences. In which Brother Benedictus is freaked out by flowers. In which flowers are also a problem for Abbot Luke. In which Brother Finn has found patience again, and Ben is brave. And in which Timothy makes a very poor decision; it seems to be going around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot of freaking out and bad decisions going around here. It’s important, to think about how your words sound to the people hearing them as much as you do about what they mean to you. And it’s hard, really hard. The words here mean very different things to each of the people hearing them, which as in life can lead to unexpected consequences. Ben and Luke are far more alike than they think they are; both trapped in their pasts, both resistant to moving forward.

 

Rey was in the midst of most of the brothers of Saint Augustine, but she was alone.  It was important, she knew, that Finn get some rest; she still didn’t understand why his visions seemed to be so painful.   She wished she could take them from him, all the things he’d had to see; even his picture of Malcolm had torn at her, and that was the second time Finn had seen that kind of madness. Rey prayed (she might as well, she thought, since they were at prayers) that she could be the one to see the warnings instead, the signs of what the worst might be. That she could get at the answers locked away in her mind.

 

And where was Benedictus?  For the first time there’d been some sort of real connection between them, and she’d seen him as he really was, she thought; as he should be.  And now they were both somewhere else, and she was alone again, a monk at prayers. She coughed, suddenly, and couldn’t seem to stop. Several of the brothers were giving her disapproving looks; she stifled the coughing as well as she could.

 

Was Finn right?  Were they so close to failure that they needed a warning?  Rey hardly noticed when the prayers ended; she let her feet take her back to the guest house without her conscious volition.  She felt altogether very strange; hot, but she was shivering. What about the thread, the connection she’d felt? She’d USED it, somehow; but she didn’t know how to do it again.  She didn’t know how.

 

Reaching the guest house and getting ready for bed sort of happened, while she thought about what to do between bouts of that irritating cough.  She was just a girl, no one from nowhere, who didn’t know how to write, or fight...or protect them both from pain. Pain...as Rey laid down her head, she felt pain, in her mind, in her belly, the thinnest, coldest, most dreadful thread of it…and she was asleep, really, when she got back out of bed and began walking back the way she’d come.

 

…

 

 _NONONONONONOnononononono_ …”NO!  I WON’T!  Not them...”  Ben sat up, hands fisted in his hair as though he were still trying to remove the helm.  His hands were shaking, his face was cold, and there was a grinding noise that proved to be his own teeth as his jaw clenched at the end of the word.  He had to _move,_ he had to _say something,_ he had to _warn_ them, and...and what?  No one would believe him.  All he had were dreams and babbled talk of demons.  He didn’t know what was real any longer himself.

 

And if they did believe him?  If there were no need to torture his secrets to light, if he confessed it all, came forward on his own to speak of the demon that had ridden and persecuted him, seemingly all his life?  They would put him to the flames. He couldn’t even really blame them. Fire was supposed to be cleansing, that’s what they said, to purify the soul. But...he was shamefully weak; he couldn’t bring himself to volunteer for the fires, and...that was where the demon waited.  

 

That thought was enough to drive him out of bed and out the door; he spared a glance to the other bed where Brother Finn lay, still sleeping, smiling at some more pleasant dream, he hoped.  Ben went where he always did, to his scriptorium; sanctuary and torment, where his best hopes and worst crimes lay. He was checking over his work, obsessively, he knew; examining it for signs of tampering and corruption and planning tomorrow’s effort, hoping it would be clean and good and right.  The unexpected sound of a cough as the door opened had him flattened against the wall, heart racing, palms damp.

 

Brother Reymund stepped hesitantly into the scriptorium. Ben stayed where he was, instinctively keeping to the shadows rather than make his presence known.  The young man walked to Ben’s own desk as though drawn by a lodestone. He trailed his slender fingers over the brushes and jars, then down the parchment secured there.  His eyes were all the colors of a pine forest, browns and greens together, why was he thinking about that now? They seemed to look straight at Ben; but they were soft, unseeing, unfocused, mouth slack as he sat down on the stool.  

 

Reymund’s beardless face was unusually pale.  Dreamily, he selected a pen and opened a jar of ink.  “What…?”, Ben started to say, then stopped, realizing Brother Reymund wasn’t hearing anything right now.  Nothing of this world, at at rate. It was fascinating and puzzling and not a little alarming.

 

For someone Ben knew to be a newly vowed monk of limited education, Brother Reymund was curiously comfortable with the tools of a scribe at the moment.  He did not hesitate in readying the pen and ink, something Ben normally did for them both, and bent immediately to his mysterious task. Ben was too intrigued to be affronted or angry at the appropriation of his desk.  Hadn’t he himself, slowly, laboriously, been teaching the young man to read and write? That couldn’t be right. Letters, oddly crowded to one side, were raining onto the parchment as though Reymund had been a scribe for years.

 

He didn’t want to disturb Brother Reymund’s ecstatic trance, so he daren’t move any closer to the desk.  The text couldn’t be discerned from Ben’s dark corner; he would have to wait. He didn’t have to wait long.  After a few moments, the pen was carefully laid aside. The small hands hesitated, then moved to set out paints and brushes. This illustration was to be painted as it was drawn; that wasn’t right...but that was hardly important right now.

 

Ben barely dared to breathe, watching intently as a shape made its way onto the opposite side and into the margins of the parchment.  It was beginning to look horribly familiar. Sweat crawled its way down his spine and yet he felt suddenly cold as he recognized the image.  A knight, done all in black, blazing red and the rust-brown of drying blood. A sword of pitted, dark iron was held to his helm in salute; flames seethed and ate their way up and down the blade, and fresher blood ran in runnels to drop from the quillons.  

 

He was richly dressed; surcoat, breeches, scaled armor, great helm, gauntlets, all in unrelieved black.  Black as well were the wings spreading to either side, like holes in the world, starless voids that _reached_ , that coveted light to fall forever into their darkness.  Ben knew this knight; he’d been looking out of that helm a scant few minutes ago.  The bones, too, were there; littered across the rocky ground, left where they fell, their final agonies plain.  

 

The boy-knight who knelt before his general was painfully easy to recognize, twisting and wrenching at Ben’s heart.  He was glad, the only gladness in this, that the illustration did not force him to see that young face again. And the face inside the commander’s helm?  Nothing. There was nothing there. But behind the dark general, the distorted, fallen angel, rose an all-too familiar column of smoke and fire; somehow, without face or voice, with only its gleeful sparks and tongues of flame, Ben knew it was laughing.

 

Every hair was standing on end as Ben silently watched.  How could this unknown, uneducated, unlikely boy know what lay in the blackest depths of his restless nights?  Was this his damning influence showing in Brother Reymund at last? It was getting worse; the demon’s hand was reaching, grasping at more of the people in Ben’s life every day.  And he knew, now, where it could end. Already his nightmares were seeping into other minds, to cast themselves on parchment into the world.

 

Reymund, seemingly satisfied, laid down the brush and got a little unsteadily to his feet.  Ben retreated farther into shadow, to hide himself; he needn’t have bothered. Though he navigated the stone floor and heavy oak door with perfect competence, Brother Reymund’s eyes still saw nothing.  Only a smear of mingled black and red across one cheek was left to show that anything had happened at all. Ben looked back at the desk, awareness hitting him like a shock of cold water; he couldn’t leave that image here.  

 

Quickly he scattered sand over the parchment to dry the ink; horrifying and sinister as it might be, he couldn’t bring himself to smear the work.  His hands moved with automatic precision as he cleaned the brushes and pens, put away the ink, and restored his desk to the perfect order he needed and craved. Ben scanned the room; all was as it should be.  Except...he unfastened the parchment where it lay, ink now dry, though the dark feathers shone as if they were still wet; he closed the door quietly behind him and crept noiselessly back to his cell. Only now, belatedly, did he notice that his own feet, as Reymund’s had been, were bare.

 

Back in the relative privacy of his cell, Ben found the thought of reading what Brother Reymund had written repellent; almost as much as he was compelled to do so.  It took an effort to stop his eyes skittering past the words in fascinated loathing.

 

“‘ _Ware, all souls beware, should warrior and angel fail or fall.  For then shall the Poet become the Knight who Rends, servant and General to the Destroying Smoke; and the world shall be scourged with a blade of blood and fire.  The brethren shall he call, to shackle them into servitude; and yet they shall come as though with joy, a seeming only, blasted and hollow. He shall teach them the ways of death.  His ink’d wings will cover the earth in shadow, that it be blind to its own burning; and he will hide his name and countenance, the better to be known for his dark deeds alone._ ”

 

Ben rolled and folded the parchment small and tucked it into his belt pouch.  It didn’t matter. The words were seared into his mind. He sat upright in bed until morning, stiff and chilled but for the scalding hot tears that from time to time ran down onto the collar of his robe. When morning arrived, he began his day as he usually would, leaving the room before Brother Finn woke.  He didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know what to do.

…

 

She’d been right.  She usually was, and so was this Brother Lorcan; the infirmarian had been brisk, but kind.  He’d said...something, in a liquid, musical language that Finn didn’t understand, but Lorcan said it meant “He who will not prosper in his sleep, will not prosper when awake.”  Easier advice to hear than it was to follow; still, he felt much better, ready to think about what to do next. He glanced over at Rey, puzzled at the traces of mingled red and black ink on her cheek that she seemed not to have noticed.

 

Finn had been ravenous this morning; but Rey only picked at her food.  Most of it was still there halfway through the meal; and THAT was very worrying.  She didn’t have much to say, either; normally she’d be full of talk about bees, or chickens, or how much she disliked one of the letters she was learning, or even the dishes she was still mending for the abbey’s kitchener.  She didn’t look well, either; there were shadows under her eyes, and here and there she coughed, a deep rasp she tried to stifle.

 

As they left the refectory, he spoke quietly, in case other brothers should pass near them.  “I don’t like the sound of that cough. Maybe Brother Lorcan…”

 

She was already shaking her head with some impatience as she answered him in little more than a whisper.  “You know I can’t, Finn. What if he decides I need a...poultice on my chest, or something like it? We’d be sent away, at best; and we’re not leaving here without Benedictus, or without him safe.”  Something like resentment flitted through her eyes. “It’s easy for you; you’re actually what you’re pretending to be.”

 

She stopped and blew out an exasperated breath, which only made her cough again.  “I’m sorry. It’s _not_ easy for you.  I know that. I’m just tired.  It’s only a cough, Finn; it’ll go away.  I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late for my lesson with Brother Benedictus.  If I try harder, if I learn faster...maybe I’ll find some way to know what we should do next.”  Her eyes were beseeching, freckles standing out against her pale face.

 

There was nothing he could say to that, really; any guidance they had was hidden away inside her mind, and he’d failed to help her bring it to light.  If Benedictus was beginning to do that, then it was vital that they continue. And she was right, again; it was harder for her, to constantly be hiding.  “Just...go easy. You said yourself, we must take care for the two of us, or we’ll be small use to anyone.” He clasped her arm, as she went off to the scriptorium.  It was the most he could do, out in the open.

 

…

 

Rey wasn’t sure how much attention she could pay to the lessons, in truth, but she hadn’t wanted to worry Finn; there was nothing he could do.  Her head ached, and her chest felt tight under the bindings. Fortunately, it seemed as though Benedictus was paying even less attention than she was.  He had a hand at his belt pouch, worrying at something inside through the fabric, and he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he flinched at the sound of the closing door.  

 

Eyes raised to hers, he seemed to be studying her face, searching for something, as she moved to sit at the second chair next to his desk.  He frowned at whatever he saw, muscles jumping at his jaw; but he said nothing. Today he’d set out ruled parchment and written some of his own beautiful, enviable letters for her to copy.  And she _tried_ , even though her head was pounding and she just wanted to sleep.  But the small fluency for which he’d praised her yesterday seemed to have vanished, along with any interest on his part as he stared moodily off to one side; so she went back to doodling in the margins.

 

…

 

He was sure of it now; Brother Reymund, too, was beginning to falter in his presence, to lose the spark of lively impudence that had provoked and amused him.  How long was it before those hazel eyes were as blank and blighted as they’d been in his dreams? How long before Brother Finn’s sympathetic warmth frosted into desolation, to be replaced by unthinking obedience?  He’d thought it better to let the letters do their own teaching today; maybe he could spare these two if he didn’t engage at all. His hand went unconsciously to the parchment, that terrible, prophetic page, touching it through the leather of his belt pouch as though probing a wound.

 

Ben couldn’t help sneaking glances at his pupil; Reymund was wan and listless today.  He began gamely enough, with “f” and “s”, “p” and “t” and “c”; but as Ben pretended to be disinterested in the proceedings, pictures began to appear in the margins again.  Here a flower bloomed, unfolding from the quill, ring upon ring of cruciform petals leading to the blossom’s heart. There a pine tree lifted crooked limbs to the sky, spreading its needle and cone-laden branches to seek the sun.  On the other side of the parchment, a mermaid sat in a scallop shell, overseen by a series of cocks with jagged combs.

 

It all looked very familiar; it should, these were some of the images that had come to him when he was meant to be lettering his great work.  So. No matter how he tried to avoid it, the pollution behind his eyes was spreading like a plague. Brother Reymund doubled over in a fit of coughing as the thought crossed Ben’s mind; by the time he’d rescued the brushes at the desk from toppling over and taking the jars of ink with them, the cough had subsided and Reymund had gone back to the parchment.  Body and soul, it seemed, he would be the damnation of them all. Ben gave meaningless, mechanical instructions, leading his apprentice through each letter, copy by copy. They weren’t getting much better; but then, it was hard to teach when you were thinking about how to protect your student from yourself.

 

They ended the lesson; Brother Reymund headed wordlessly and wearily for the door, shaking his head at a sharp glance from Brother Finn as he came into the room.  Ben glanced at the parchment as he went to exchange it for a new one; the letters in the ruled lines faltered and staggered their way across the page; but inside each drawing in the margins, f for _flora,_ p for _pineus,_ s for _syreni, and_ t for _testa_ , the shell, were letters perfectly formed atop the illustrations.  He puzzled over the “c” on the cock’s sharp-edged wing, until he realized with a prickling of the hairs on his arms that it stood for _chalceus_ ; the bird was made of brass.

 

…

 

Brother Benedictus put away the parchment Rey had been using with almost indecent haste; Finn could hear the corner of the page tear as it was removed from the desk.  His eyes were wild, glimpsed as he turned to find another parchment; and Finn could _feel_ him schooling himself to calm.  There was no remaining outward sign of agitation as Benedictus returned to the desk, but Finn knew better.  He was being studied; those anxious eyes searched him for...something, dropping to the parchment secured to the desk whenever he risked a look in return.

 

Perhaps it was because he was rested, or because he’d spoken to Rey about how he felt himself, his fear and discouragement; but Finn was more aware of the trickle of connection between them today.  Brother Benedictus, he could sense, was terrified and, somewhere under his facade of polite distance, near despair.

 

Today they were to work on floral motifs, it seemed; Benedictus said very little, but under his clever fingers foliage of all types grew and thrived as he showed Finn how to layer leaves and petals one atop the other, how to draw out the flower from center to tip or spiral it inward from edge to center, how to depict the leaves as they would actually grow; nature didn’t usually arrange things in even pairs.  He used roses to illustrate this point; they reminded Finn of the convent gardens at Santa Maria de Moreruela.

 

Rey had been making some headway with Benedictus, he’d thought.  Now, when he could think about it rationally, without the unreasonable hurt he’d felt, humor must be a sign of progress.  It didn’t seem as though their lesson had gone well today, though. That was all right. It was up to each of them to be strong when the other faltered, as she had already been for him.  They’d reached the Lotus Eaters, and Finn considered what to say, as Brother Benedictus read the words and Finn worked on his illustrations. The text gave its own sort of inspiration:

 

“But as they ate it/They lost the will to come back and bring news/to me.  They wanted only to stay there,/feeding on lotus with the Lotus-Eaters.”

 

He wasn’t sure how a lotus-fruit should look, so he drew a strawberry, plump and juicy; it was the first fruit that came to mind.  As Benedictus continued, he began sketching a flower; he knew which variety it would be as soon as his hands met the parchment; larger, soft skirts of lavender circling and diminishing in size as he moved toward the inner core of the bloom, the row of tiny white shapes, each like a delicate x written in white petals, drawing one into the darker, waiting center.  

 

This was just a sketch; it was dry, and his skills still needed improvement, but still it made him think of the secret burst of silken brightness, waiting until the day Rey could be herself again. He smiled, remembering her delight. But he needed to listen; it was Benedictus who needed him now, and Finn was determined to make himself understood.

 

“They had forgotten home.  I dragged them back/in tears, forced them…”  Benedictus ground to an abrupt halt as he raised his head and caught sight of Finn’s illustration.  His face went still, eyes moving from petal to petal; Finn thought he saw the other man’s fingers tremble where they held the volume.  Yes, it was terror he could feel; and something about this image had only increased it. He thought about the words. The time for their lesson was almost finished; quickly would be better.

 

“Some would find it paradise, I imagine, to join the Lotus-Eaters and forget all trouble and the remains of past pain; but to me it would be an exile, a sort of imprisonment, to see those who care for you and to no longer know them.  Rescue and friendship waiting near, and those under the spell of Lotus unable to recognize the help at hand. The loss of volition, of the will and means to leave and to find one’s home, seems more tragedy than blessing. One should always know hope.”  Finn hoped Benedictus would understand what he meant. He looked up from the sketch he’d almost completed, trying to let his expression, his eyes convey that the help Benedictus needed was _here_ , was even now by his side.

 

Finn was not prepared for the reaction he’d elicited.  Benedictus looked at him with a flare of naked horror for an instant; he immediately dropped his gaze and began putting away the tools.  A single droplet appeared on the parchment as he did; but when he spoke, his voice was steady, if a little rougher than usual. “I think we’re finished for today.  If you’ll excuse me, Brother Finn.” He did not quite flee the room; but after he left Finn noticed he’d put away the pens and brushes without cleaning them. They were both worrying him today.  Finn couldn’t think what he’d done wrong, as he set to cleaning their tools himself.

 

…

 

Ben couldn’t make himself move farther away from them.  He needed to stay away, far away, as much as he could; but he craved their closeness, to each other, and as much as he could manage, to him.  He was like a rainstorm trying to warm itself at a campfire, and if he wasn’t careful he’d extinguish them both. But he still couldn’t make himself move.  So he sat as near as he dared and listened to them talk; mostly to Brother Finn talk. Brother Reymund still looked ashen and exhausted; and he was coughing again, eventually pushing away his plate.  Where was Lorcan? Ben didn’t believe that was a question he’d ever asked himself before.

 

He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, though; Brothers Radbod and Caius appeared at the table with a steaming mug and a bowl of something.  Brother Reymund gave the pair a pallid smile for their trouble and thanked them both. Ben could hear Brother Radbod tell Reymund he’d best go and see Lorcan as soon as he was finished helping his current patient; a glance around the refectory revealed that Brother Callum was missing, too; another one of the casualties Ben knew he was all too rapidly creating.  He turned back to see Finn nodding as Reymund tucked into the tea and soup; satisfied, Caius and Radbod returned to the kitchen. It was something. Lorcan might be able to help; but the only real solution was to keep them both away from him.

 

…

 

There was no one to tend to the bees.  Rey wondered dully where Callum might be.  It didn’t matter; she knew what to do, more or less.  She’d nodded, and smiled, and yes, of course she’d go and see Brother Lorcan, and then gone back to the work she was meant to be doing. There wasn’t enough honey yet to harvest more, and the hives were clean enough for now.

 

Rey did her best, even after the coughing started again (the smoke hadn’t been any help) and the black bees seemed to multiply in her vision, swarming at the edges and eating the daylight as her ribs creaked under the strain. Wherever he was, he’d return to find that his charges had been cared for in his absence.  She could manage that.

…

 

Dismus had asked him to take in Brother Callum.  “It’s not that we can’t put him somewhere else, Lorcan; well, it is, but it’s that I think he’ll be better with you.”  They’d been told, a few of them, what had happened in Aberdeen; Luke had been informed, of course, as abbot, of the circumstances of Callum’s leaving his former home.  The tale had made its way to Dismus, in charge of their new guest upon his arrival (he was a dab hand at helping folk find their place), and then to Lorcan (there was bound to be some trouble, starting a new life on the heels of all of that).

 

He’d come to the infirmarium carrying a bit more honeycomb, as though he needed an excuse.  Fair enough; Lorcan had set him to helping with the medicines that used honey as part of themselves, to occupy the hands and a bit of the mind and let the heart speak when it was ready.  Eventually he’d poured out all of it, the madness and wounding and death, that he’d shared the story with Brothers Finn and Reymund and he didn’t even understand _why_ ; he didn’t know them, he didn’t know _anyone_...and Lorcan had listened as though he hadn’t already been told.  That was a large part of this, listening. She’d taught him that.

 

When the words went from broken to gone, when Callum had stuttered to a halt, he’d started with the easiest and most visible part.  

 

"Does it pain you, the scar?" Callum shook his head.

 

"Only sometimes, if it's cold, or when I'm weary." It was summer, and nothing like cold; but weary was exactly what he was, it was easy enough to see; and his blighted sleep had been plain enough to hear.  The beard he’d grown covered most of it, but he was pale enough just now that the visible part of the scar stood out against his skin.

 

Lorcan knew his next words were important; his Lark would have known what to say, he thought. He let her memory guide him.  "Thoughts and spirit may have their scars too; and we must let them heal. When they have healed enough, we can begin to work, flexing and stretching our minds and hearts to strengthen them so they remain fit for use.  You may find that this, too, pains you still, if you feel cold, or weary, always; but that's all right. You can rest, when you need it, and warm your soul here at your brothers' hearths; and return to the needed work again when the hurt is lessened."

 

He remembered the way she'd smile, and look up at Ge-mu, the Mother Mountain, when he himself had been impatient to heal. She'd said "Water wears away a stone at the same pace, whether we wish it to be more quickly done or no."  Once he’d learned to understand what she was saying, all her words had etched themselves onto his memory.

 

He turned to the remedies they'd been making. "You may find, too, that in helping others your own wounds are better tended.  Or that you more easily understand the pain of another as you recognize in it your own pain. Don't be afraid to find comfort where you can, in the smallest of things; a job well done, a recollection that brings a smile, interest shared, and to rest in those small joys until you are restored."

 

A little work, a little talk, and some time, and he’d send Brother Callum back to the world a bit stronger than when he’d knocked on the door.

 

Perhaps he was getting better with scars.  Luke’s had been beyond him, once long ago; and Ben’s, too, when he’d come here as a boy.  But it was a dull one indeed he’d have to be if most of a lifetime of study hadn’t made some improvement. Helping Callum might be a good step toward learning to help those two and the ones around them heal, too, some fine day.  So. If he could help them understand that the memory of lost ones could be more the love than the loss, in time, he thought she’d be truly proud of him; after all, she’d taught him that as well, long after she was gone.

 

…

 

The chickens, too, needed her to do the work, no matter how she felt.  They shouldn’t suffer because she had a cough; it wasn’t as though they could take care of themselves, or go and get someone else to help.  Rey didn’t trust herself with eggs at the moment; it was taking her vision some time to clear each time she stooped to clean in the henhouse.  But she could do enough to make the hens comfortable, and the eggs would mostly still be there when she felt better. Evidently Abbot Luke would not be joining her today.  That was just as well. He might have questions she couldn’t answer.

 

Once the coop was clean, Rey had reached the end of her strength for the day.  She stopped to wash at the tower, the water cool on her fevered skin; but she was shivering as she reached the guest house. Would it be worse to be missed at the evening meal, or to be there and have everyone wondering why she wasn’t eating, why she was still struggling along on her own?

 

Would it...would...the thoughts wouldn’t stay in order, they moved themselves into a confusing jumble and she gave up trying to sort them.  Her bindings were suddenly suffocating; she managed to remove her cowl and scapular and reach under her robe to undo the knots before dropping all of it to the floor and crawling under the blanket in the loose robe that remained.  The text in her mind wouldn’t stay still; it crawled and danced behind her eyelids as she drifted fitfully to sleep.

 

…

 

Today he would be working with the other half of the abbey’s pair of draft horses.  Atlas was as patient and willing as Goliath was mischievous; but he was, perhaps, not the brightest of horses.  Goliath understood Finn perfectly, it was more a matter of speaking sweetly until he wanted to do as he’d been asked without realizing he’d been taught, and occasionally letting him know with a look that he was being unreasonably obstinate.  Atlas wanted only to please, but he often didn’t recognize when he was being given the tools and the help that would let him.

 

They’d been trained, together; but since the abbey’s wagon had been destroyed by fire they’d been backsliding, unwilling or unable to listen to direction.  Finn had managed to piece together a bit more of that story, but not much. He knew now that the fire had happened more or less when he and Rey had been at Bath Priory; but Timothy, who’d mentioned that Brother Benedictus had withdrawn from the other brothers afterward, was curiously reluctant to provide any further details.  

  


Finn’s task just now was to work with each of the massive geldings, Goliath and Atlas both, until they were ready to reconcile their wildly different temperaments into a cohesive whole.  Preferably before the abbey acquired a new means of transport and they must share a harness as though they were a single beast. At the moment he was patiently repeating signals and instructions to Atlas (ones he was meant already to know, mind) until he began once again to connect the gesture and expression with the desired action.  

 

Rendering this more difficult than it should have been was the presence of Abbot Luke’s stallion, who was out in the next pen while his stall was cleaned.  He’d failed to notice that the gelding was no threat to his dominance with the mares, and he trotted back and forth at the fence between the two pens, tossing his head and rearing and issuing the occasional ringing challenge.  This had Atlas nervously swiveling his ears and rolling his eyes instead of watching Finn as he should be doing. Heroic perseverance was going to be required.

…

 

He’d been trying to work.  The work might still save him; and Ben craved the concentration, the single-minded focus it would give him.  He hadn’t got very far, since the fire, since they came; teaching was taking up a great deal of his time, especially since he’d found that he needed it; _them_.  That had to change; so it was back to his solitary work, which he hoped he could keep as it should be, so that no one else might be destroyed.  He’d been working on Job; a book he would normally have avoided as long as he could, but this past while, since the fire, it had suited his mood.

 

Today he wanted, needed, something more beautiful, a reminder of green, growing things and love; and so he turned back to the Song of Songs.  Flitting from book to book as he worked wasn’t efficient, it wasn’t how he wanted things to be; but he’d ruled and planned them all long ago, so now as he worked Ben went wherever he thought his mind might cooperate best.

 

“Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; for love is strong as death.”  Yes. He needed love to be as strong as death, lest those around him fall. But the next line read “Jealousy is cruel as the grave; the flashes thereof are flashes of fire…”  And in his mind Ben saw a fiery sword. No. NO. With a wrench, he gave himself wholly to the work again, and tried his best to banish the images and drive himself forward. …”then was I in his eyes as one that found peace.”  Yes. Peace was what he was seeking here.

 

And for a while, it helped.  The letters formed and flowed as they should, each one looming large before his eyes as he gave it all the perfection of which he was capable before blinking it away to move on to the next.  He was the quill, the ink, the parchment, and most especially the ordered chaos of the lines upon it. He’d reached the end of the Song of Songs, “Lover, you who dwell in the gardens, with friends in attendance, let me hear your voice!  Beloved, come away, my beloved!” Ben smiled. He knew what was needed here. He picked up the stylus and began to sketch.

 

…

 

Ben needed more.  He needed more than Luke had been able to give him. No matter how many times he’d thought about mending what lay between them, he’d failed, again and again.   He’d thought, perhaps, that the two new brothers might serve; that in working with a like mind like Brother Finn’s and a willing apprentice like Brother Reymund, his nephew could find peace, even happiness.  And at first it seemed he might; Ben had been actively engaged in the work, even offering to take extra time to teach Brother Finn how to read Greek. But yesterday, when he’d returned the letters, Ben had been arrogant and cold, dismissive of any value either of their new brethren might possess.  

 

His sister had been like that too, sometimes, when she was unsure or afraid; but to his shame, Luke didn’t know enough about his nephew’s heart to know what he really meant.  Not the way he’d once instinctively known his twin and what she was feeling. What essential spark had Luke lost, over all these years, that Ben remained a mystery? What he did know was that last night the cries and sounds that were often part of Ben’s nights had escalated to something that was close to a scream.  He should say something. He should go to him. He should try again.

 

…

 

Flowers rioted across the page, a lovers’ garden in truth.  They were only sketches, but Ben could see how they’d glow, when he’d added color and life.   Narcissus would hang its golden bells from brilliant stars of a delicate moonlight paleness; saxifrage would flourish in violet and white, stamens rising like reeds from the dew cupped in the center of each blossom.  Freesia would reach up with petals the warm color of sun on sand; and thinking of the vibrant scent of that flower led him back to the way the fragrance of lavender had spilled through the air of his cell, soothing and cool.

 

He was still smiling at the fields of lavender he was adding in rows when the first sharp teeth of rock began to tear their way out from among the flowers. No.  He didn’t want this. This wasn’t what he meant, it wasn’t part of his work, this belonged to that other life, that other place; but he couldn’t seem to stop the blasted landscape from making its way onto the parchment.  His fingers wouldn’t obey him. And there, at the foot of the pine tree he was drawing in a determined attempt to add more life? Among its roots lay tangled bones.

 

ENOUGH.  This was HIS work, and he would _choose_.  Ben couldn’t make himself obliterate the violent slashes of stone, like screams, or to erase the death he’d allowed into the garden. But…”Love is strong as death.”  Maybe there was something he could do. He thought back to the lesson, when he’d been teaching Brother Finn, and began to cover the stones with roses. Roses climbed and covered the towering crags with jubilation; they wove themselves among the bones, adorning and softening the presence of death with a reminder that life persists, to struggle and strive.

 

Better, it was better; his hands ceased to tremble and grew still and obedient as petal after silken petal formed under them;  it wasn’t until he’d covered most of the margins with roses that he noticed it, there next to the bones. Ben didn’t know if it was left behind as something no longer needed, or waiting there to be picked up and put to use (he was very much afraid it was the second); but hidden in the grass at the foot of the pine was a sword.  

 

He was turning to go, parchment still secured to the desk, tools still set out for use, before he knew he’d made a decision.  Best not to think, while he still might have the courage. Hadn’t Geoffroi de Charney said “...you will be powerless to change the situation. You will often be afraid...But if you stay, you will win eternal honour. Is he not a great martyr, who puts himself to such work?"  He’d been speaking of knights on the battlefield. Sometimes the work was just to go where you must, even if you were afraid. Even if you were powerless.

  


…

 

Ben was absorbed in the work.  That was good, very good. He hadn’t heard the door opening and didn’t seem to have noticed Luke at all.  Should he speak? At least to ask him...something, how he was, about the sketch, the words? Or leave him to the work, if he was happy?  

 

Luke edged closer to the desk.  And felt suddenly dizzy, his hearing muffled and his hands cold.  “Lover, you who dwell in the gardens, with friends in attendance, let me hear your voice!  Beloved, come away, my beloved!”, he read as his finger and thumb caressed the fragment of sealing wax he’d plucked from his desk; and curling all around the words and among the rocks of the illustration were roses, everywhere roses.  At the foot of the familiar pine lay a fallen pile of bones, next to them a sword, as though someone had left himself behind under a tree planted long ago, when he’d laid down his weapon and burden; and they too were tangled up in roses.

 

He looked up from the parchment to see his nephew’s eyes, the same warm, changeable brown-amber of his mother’s, wide and wary, looking into his own.  He looked...shocked, and as though he were cold. “Ben…”, Luke started, before he had a chance to remember that Ben preferred his full name now, “I...meant to ask you…how...”  His voice caught in his throat. He couldn’t stop looking at the roses and there was the sight of her, sound of her, and the feel of the seal and its petal under his fingers, and he needed to say something here and now.  If he couldn’t control himself, how could he keep the Abbey safe and secure, a place of peace and a place to grow, as it should be? And he was too late...again.

 

“I...there’s something I need to do.  Excuse me...Abbot Luke.” Ben was already heading for the door, his tools and parchment left behind, and that was not like him at all.  His jaw was set, teeth gritted, as though he forced himself to an unpleasant task; and Ben was nothing if not careful, always careful, with his tools, with his work, with people, too careful...since the fire.  Luke had hesitated, had let his weakness for a love long gone, that never was, rule him again. But how? How did Ben continue to produce images like these, reverie and pain laid bare? He supposed he’d earned this kind of torment, for his weakness and his sins; but Ben deserved better.  Best to see where he was going. That kind of grim resolve suggested nowhere good.

 

…

 

He needed to _see_ .  There had been the sword, and the stones, and the bones; and they’d insisted on making themselves part of the work, his work, that was meant to bring him to Heaven, to set him free and let him see his father again.  And they didn’t _belong_ .  They belonged in his nightmares, please let them be nightmares; they belonged in a darkness that should never be.  And they kept coming; in his dreams, in the mysterious parchment Reymund had created in the middle of the night, and now in his work, in broad daylight, when he’d meant it to be _clean_.  

 

And he couldn’t stop seeing how that nightmare had ended, and so he needed to _see_ ; to see Timothy with his own eyes, to see that he was still himself, that Ben hadn’t warped and ruined and broken him somehow. But that meant going to the stables.  So he’d gone, while the decision was fresh in his mind, before he’d really even known he’d made it, and Uncle Luke, he thought, had been going to say something, but this was important, to _see_.  If he could do that, maybe he could stop hearing it, the clang of mailed fists on armor in an otherwise ringing silence.

 

He was outside already, Ben didn’t remember opening the door out of the building, but he was outside.  His feet grew more reluctant with every step. He didn’t go to the stables, not ever, because even thinking about them meant he heard the _sounds_ , like he was hearing them now, the screams and the crackle, the crash and the roar.  There was no fire, he knew that, no smoke; but his chest was tight and he couldn’t breathe and he could smell it nonetheless.  It was cool, for a summer evening, he knew that too, but he was sweating as though he’d been running; he wanted to run.

 

But he needed to _see_ ; so Ben kept walking, and in a few minutes, after an eternity, he’d reached one of the fenced pens.  There was a fencepost he could hold, that was good, it was hard to breathe and that was making it hard to see and hear and think; his hair was clinging to his face, why was it wet?  And he could see Timothy, he was there, carrying a bucket of water to one of the troughs outside, and he looked like himself, he looked _right_ ; but Ben could smell metal and blood, and a horse was screaming again, why were they always screaming, and the stallion was running with his mane, with his flames, streaming out behind him, and the fences were made of bones.  And he looked at Finn; like an anchor, something solid as his vision narrowed, because he couldn’t bear to look at Timothy in case he’d _changed_.

 

…

 

They’d told Finn that Brother Benedictus never went anywhere near the stables.  He’d seen himself how he’d blanched at the very mention of the place, how his eyes had dilated with fear when Finn suggested he come and join in the work there.  But here he was. Benedictus was standing by one of the fence posts as Finn continued his work with Atlas; more accurately, he seemed to be clinging to it in order to remain standing.  He’d been watching Timothy, at first; and then, Finn thought, seeing nothing at all, pale as milk and sweating as though he stood next to a fire.

 

Atlas was beginning to fidget and dance in place.  The task in front of him needed his focus, so Finn kept on with the work; but he split his attention between the two of them as he spoke. It didn’t matter what he said to the gelding, he knew, but it might matter very much what he said just now.  “Watch me, yes, that’s right, keep your eyes on me. I’m here to help you; all you must do is listen and let me. So; together, we will make things better. Don’t worry about anything else here, just listen to my voice, watch my hands and my eyes, and the rest will take care of itself.”  

 

He thought the flow of words was having some effect; on the gelding and Benedictus both.  Atlas was focused on him, moving smoothly along with his gestures; and past the edge of the fence, Brother Benedictus had straightened his shoulders, his knuckles not quite so whitened where they gripped the post.  “That’s right. That’s good. Be still, listen to me here in front of you, and let everything else go.” It was almost time to be finished working with Atlas; he’d made progress today, and it seemed Finn might be needed elsewhere.

 

…

 

Brother Benedictus had come to the stables.  He NEVER came to the stables; maybe he was ready to talk again.  Timothy loved his work, and Brother Daniel was kind, but he was OLD; and Timothy was younger than all the other novices, and he was different than they were.  He hadn’t come here on his own as they had, he hadn’t chosen this, and he still didn’t know if serving God as a monk was for him. He’d thought Benedictus understood; he seemed to know what it was like to be different from everyone else, to feel alone; and he knew about decisions, and mistakes.  And then he’d gone away, even though he was still here.

 

But there he was, and Timothy wondered if he’d join in the work, or come and talk; but he just stayed where he was, leaning on the fence, watching Brother Finn.  You couldn’t really blame him; Brother Finn was awfully good at this; you could learn a lot just watching and listening to him. It was like the horses got calm just by being around him; it really didn’t seem to matter what he said.  It was like he made his voice deep, and soft, and slow, and you couldn’t help but listen.

 

But that wasn’t FAIR.  Brother Finn and Brother Benedictus got to work together all day, and Timothy didn’t understand any of what they were doing; he could read, he supposed, but he had no idea what a scribe really did all day, and he wanted someone to talk to about things, and he’d thought they were friends.  And here he was, Brother Benedictus, just walking into the stableyard like it was nothing, and he was just here to spend more time with Brother Finn. It wasn’t fair.

 

Timothy was climbing the fence before he knew what he was going to do, bucket forgotten in the grass.  Abbot Luke’s stallion had stopped moving, for once, even he was listening to Brother Finn, though he was still snorting and pawing the grass.  He was standing _right there_ by the fence, with just a harness and a halter draped back over his neck, no saddle, just right there, and Timothy looked over to see if Benedictus was watching, but he wasn’t, and maybe it was time for Timothy to do something brave, something that got noticed.  Brother Lorcan had called him Ben, he remembered.

 

…

 

Finn had just begun to lead Atlas back to his stall, toward where Benedictus still stood watching.  He kept up a stream of encouragement, of soft words, as he did; though perhaps it was time to be more direct.  Something to consider, once he’d seen to the gelding. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn could see the abbot, as well, standing in the shadow of the stable itself.  What was the matter with that man? It was plain to see that Benedictus was near to breaking, just being near the stable and the horses; Finn still didn’t know why, but he would stake his life that Abbot Luke did.  Why was he not going to his nephew, to discover what was wrong; for mere human comfort?

 

They both turned, Benedictus and Finn, as they heard the boyish shout from the far pen.  “Brother Benedictus! BEN. Watch this!” Oh, no. Timothy had climbed the fence between this pen and the next, and as both of them stood transfixed with horror, he leapt from the top of the fence onto the stallion’s back.  There was a beat of absolute silence. They were all shocked to stillness, even the horse; and then there was a squeal of outrage. The stallion, whose name Finn still hadn’t learned, ran in a wide loop, flinging his head about and thrashing.  Somehow, Timothy was hanging onto the halter and the tossing mane.

 

The stallion stopped, then began to gallop toward them; Finn, Benedictus, and Atlas.  Finn could see the bunched haunches and he knew what was going to happen next, but before he could speak, the stallion leapt straight over the fence.  That was more than the child, tiny on the broad back, could handle; Timothy was thrown, landing with a thud on the grass just their side of the fence, and lay frighteningly still.

 

The sight of Atlas only seemed to make the stallion more angry.  He ran furiously from one side of the pen to the other, charging at poor Atlas, who gave a high, frightened whinny as Finn tried to keep hold of the gelding’s lead rope, it was all hooves and hair and teeth and huge bodies too close together; but then the stallion changed direction, around the edge of the pen, skirting close to the fence, which would take him back to…

 

“Timothy!” That was Benedictus, who’d seen where the stallion was going.  There was no time to be subtle now.

 

“Take this.  BEN.” That’s what Timothy had said, Ben.  “Just take it, I don’t have time to argue, and I don’t have time to be kind.  I know this hurts you, but I know you care about the boy, so just TAKE IT.” He handed the gelding’s lead rope to Benedictus, not waiting to see what he did with it, and ran straight across the pen, hoping he’d get there before the stallion finished going the long way around.  He saw that the abbot was running, too; he wasn’t sure either of them would get there in time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news: Finn is now done being patient, details to follow. Part of the problem with disguising yourself is what exactly to do if you’re injured or ill, as Rey is discovering. And Ben really, really has problems with horses; but is willing to push himself past what he thought were his limits for the sake of someone else. Thanks to @flypaper-brain for pushing the intensity, and @leofgyth for the manuscript, style, and technique background to infuse into the story.


	18. Recordatio et Recognitio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recollection and Recognition
> 
> In which Brother Ben continues to be brave, because he is doing his best for others. In which Brother Finn is a hero; at least twice. In which Abbot Luke knows he needs forgiveness. In which Ben has a very bad night. In which Rey is on someone’s mind, but curiously absent. In which Finn is royally fed up with this. And in which the second word of our title is very, very important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Force is very much present in this story. We know our heroes are bonded; but there are other ways in which they have shown and will show that there’s something mystical about them. 
> 
> The use of honey, vinegar, and spiderwebs in the treatment of wounds is just really cool. Brother Callum actually listens to advice, shocking; and is helping himself through helping others. 
> 
> Lorcan continues to have a pottymouth, which just amuses us to no end, and we hope you also.

Everything had gone wrong as soon as he’d got there.  Brother Finn had been working with one of the big horses, his voice low and soothing.  Ben had begun to feel a little better just listening to the words, as though they were for him, too.  Timothy had been happily going about his day, just as he should be. And then he’d come, just to see, just to watch, and now it was all coming apart and Timothy hadn’t moved and there was a HORSE on the other end of this rope, but he couldn’t think about the absolutely enormous animal right now, because he needed to _see_.

 

Ben didn’t think he’d ever known a person to move that fast.  Brother Finn was across the pen in a heartbeat, it seemed; and...that was his uncle, running somewhat more slowly in his wake.  And the stallion, his uncle’s mount, Ben hated that beast, reached the small shape in the grass at the same time as Finn. It paused and _reared_ , standing impossibly tall on its hind legs and kicking at the air, and Brother Finn flinched but he just kept going, scooping Timothy up off the ground and circling around the stallion.  He saw his uncle, looking smaller than Ben thought he should be, standing dangerously close to the mad animal as he hauled on its rope, the halter, it was called, why did that matter?

 

The stallion shook Luke aside, sending him stumbling backward to fall onto the grass, as it ran, then stopped in the middle of the pen and turned to run back the other way, and then Brother Finn was looking at Luke, and the stallion, and the horse whose rope Ben was somehow still holding, and down at Timothy, who still hadn’t moved or opened his eyes, and Ben heard himself speak.  “Give him to me. I can take him. Please.” And he was handing the rope to Brother Daniel, who’d appeared out of nowhere, and Timothy weighed nothing at all, and he was so _small_ , and white as chalk, and Ben was running, as smoothly as he could for fear of causing him further hurt.

 

…

 

Luke still didn’t know why Ben had come to the stables, why he’d shouted in the middle of the night, how he continued to draw, somehow, what was in Luke’s mind, any of it, and he’d been standing there like a coward again, afraid to ask.  He’d known Brother Finn was good with horses. Daniel had told him, when he’d come to ask for permission to “borrow” him for the stables.

 

But what happened next was uncanny.  While Luke was still struggling to his feet, their newest scribe handed the boy, Timothy, off to Ben, and ran back past Luke to vault the fence between pens without noticeably slowing down at all.  Exilium had settled down somewhat, back in his own familiar enclosure, but he was still snorting and tossing his head, and Luke began walking toward them both to offer some advice on handling the stallion; but it seemed he wasn’t going to be needed.  

 

Brother Finn approached the stallion sidelong, patiently moving just a little at a time; he stopped at each snort or stomp, and he kept up a constant flow of words, a murmur, nothing Luke could understand from where he was.  But the effect it had on Exilium was apparent; slowly the tossing of his head began to resemble nodding, his ears swiveled back from anger to calm, and he stopped shying and pawing the earth. Brother Finn took hold of the halter; Luke started to say “Don’t…” because he knew what would happen next.  

 

But when the stallion began to lunge forward, to drag his handler as he tended to do with anyone but Luke, Brother Finn stepped forward and laid his shoulder in front of the stallion’s chest with a few sharp words. Luke didn’t know what they meant; something like “Aye.” and another word he didn’t understand at all, but sounded like “koom”.  Exilium tried his defiance again; and again, Brother Finn interposed himself in front of the horse as he moved. Startled and puzzled at the interference, the stallion stopped, then backed; and gradually he began to do as he was bid, which seemed to be as much of a surprise to Exilium as it was to Luke.

 

…

 

Lorcan gave him a sharp, startled look when he opened the door, but his eyes moved to Timothy, still unmoving in Ben’s arms, and he motioned to bring him inside.  Ben laid the boy down gently on the cot where not so long ago Timothy had been watching over him. He didn’t care to be under Lorcan’s discerning eye, but he owed it to Timothy to stay and help if he could.

 

Both of those slate-blue eyes searched his face.  “Tell me what happened.” Ben was relieved when the infirmarian turned back to examine Timothy.

 

“I was at the stables.”  The graying brows rose nearly to Lorcan’s hairline, but he said nothing.  “Timothy...tried to ride the abbot’s stallion. Exilium jumped the fence, and threw him.  I...he hasn’t moved, or opened his eyes. Is he going to be all right? He shouldn’t have tried that.  Uncle Luke is only one who can ride that beast, and...just look at him. He’s so _small_.  I don’t, why would he do that?”  He was babbling. Ben closed his mouth and waited.

 

“He’s given himself a nasty lump just here, which is why he hasn’t opened his eyes yet;” Lorcan said, indicating the back of Timothy’s head, “but not a broken skull, nor anything so serious as that.”  His hands were gentle as he checked for any other injuries; he frowned. That didn’t seem good. He was holding the boy’s arm, pressing carefully midway between hand and elbow. There was a faint whimper.  

 

Lorcan shook his head.  “That’s broken. **_Scrios Dé!_ ** ”  He shot a look Heavenward.  “Sorry, sorry, You know I don’t mean that.” He looked at Ben, who had no idea what he’d said.  “That’ll be the second time this year he’s broken the same arm. And he’ll need the use of them both, if he’s to work in a stable when he’s grown.  We’ve got to set the arm, and then immobilize it as best we can. Will you help me to help him?”

 

There was nothing Ben could do but nod in agreement.  He found himself holding Timothy’s small arm steady as Lorcan directed; sweat stood out in beads on the old man’s brow as he twisted and pulled precisely at the limb. “The bones, both of them, need to be properly aligned, or it’s small use the arm will be to him.  I’ve got to pull, to bring the broken ends clear of each other until they can be placed where they belong. Be prepared; this will hurt him, I’m afraid.”

 

There was a weak sort of scream as Lorcan finished; Ben looked down to see Timothy’s eyes open, but blank and glazed, looking straight into his own, his teeth bared.  It was too much. That was how his eyes had looked...no. NO. He was injured, in pain, that was all, it wasn’t...Ben hadn’t...there was a clattering noise as the chair fell to the floor.  Ben found he was halfway to the door already, scrambling backwards to his feet, he needed to get _away_ , the farther away, for Timothy’s sake, the better.  Those eyes were closed again as he left, shutting the door on Lorcan’s questions.  “Benedictus? What on God’s green earth? **_Damnú!_ ** ”

 

Ben’s feet took him without thinking to his cell.  He sat on the bed, heart pounding, hands icy, and tried to find calm, to slow his breathing.  The crinkling of parchment in his belt pouch was like thunder in his ears. Slowly, unwillingly, he took the page from its hiding place and unfolded it.  There was the dark commander and the Stygian blackness of his wings. There was the child-knight on his knees. There were the flames, everywhere flames.

 

The more Ben looked at the painting, the more he thought the demon was reaching for them both.  He read the words, over and over, eyes moving from the emptiness behind the helm to the tousled hair of his boy-disciple.  He didn’t hear the sound of his teeth chattering, or notice the drops falling onto the edges of the parchment. And he wasn’t aware of the moment he stopped reading the words, and began seamlessly to hear them echoing as the page slipped from his hands and he slept.

…

 

Finn was beginning to understand the problem.  He was unbelievably weary; he’d missed the evening meal, he couldn’t even think what else he’d missed.  The rest of his evening, until after it was dark and they’d needed candles for light, had been spent at the stables.  The problem was that no one here seemed to know how to communicate. It was ridiculous. Abbot Luke had evidently been relying on the bond between himself and the horse, which Finn had seen was strong, and no one seemed to have bothered with training the beast.

 

Even Daniel, who must have known that the stallion needed training, had failed to communicate this fact to the abbot, and had simply left Abbot Luke to care for his own mount rather than broach the subject.  Finn could understand that; most of the time the Abbot’s expression could best be described as _forbidding_ ; and everyone had known not to go near the stallion, Exilium, what an odd name for a horse, though given his own name Finn supposed he shouldn’t judge.

 

And under the fatigue, something was beginning to boil, it had started as he worked with the horses;  Finn was _angry_ .  He knew, none better, that it was tempting to rely on what you felt or sensed instead of talking, but for the love of Heaven, he’d only been here a little more than a week; Abbot Luke had been failing to talk to anyone, apparently, for _years_.  

 

It was the job of an abbot to stand apart, yes, to be the head of the community, responsible for them all and able to see them as a spiritual father, not an equal; but it was equally his place to understand them and to be the person to whom they could take their problems or their worries.  Finn had never known a father, or any relative, outside the Church; but he remembered going to Brother Yohannes with his childish fears, his many (infinite!) questions, and even his nightmares. But here was Benedictus, his struggles so plain and so painful; and his uncle, with a relationship already established between them, did nothing.  And Benedictus and Exilium both suffered for the lack.

 

There hadn’t been time; why was there never time, to speak to Abbot Luke, even had Finn trusted himself to try? They’d discovered that poor Atlas had not escaped unscathed; Exilium had administered a nasty bite in the scuffle, a wound to the gelding’s neck that needed care.  By now filled with frustration and infuriated on behalf of the poor beast, Finn had barked orders at the nearest person to go and get Brother Callum and have him bring honey and spiderwebs, and a few other things; in this case that happened to be the abbot himself.

 

Abbot Luke hadn’t returned.  It was just as well. Finn wasn’t sure what he might have said if he had.  It was Callum who’d come to the stables, and known exactly what Finn intended.  They’d used vinegar to clean the wound, more vinegar and honey to dress it, and cobweb to keep it from bleeding.  He’d wondered why Brother Callum had saved some back, until he’d felt it being applied to his own arm, and glanced down to discover that one of Exilium’s lashing hooves had sliced him open as well.  He hadn’t even felt it.

 

By then it was time for bed, and Finn was exhausted.  He knew Timothy was in good hands, and he didn’t give a damn where Abbot Luke was, not until morning, at any rate.   As it was, there was going to be much to be said on the morrow. Oh. He’d reached the room he was sharing with Benedictus.  

 

He cast a look at the other bed; Benedictus was sleeping, though his face was drawn and he shivered.  Finn drew the blanket over the other man, wondering what he would say when they woke. He hoped Rey was getting a good night’s sleep, it might help to get rid of that cough.  If not, he’d ask Lorcan for something himself when he went to check on Timothy in the morning. They had to take care of each other. He was smiling at the thought as he fell asleep.

 

...

 

Someone had to give the news.  Someone had to lead the prayers.  All their normal routine was in chaos, and it was Luke’s job to take the reins.  He told the brothers what had happened, sparing himself nothing in relating the tale.  He’d told them he planned to have Brothers Finn and Daniel start training the stallion, and asked their forgiveness. Luke was thinking about Timothy as they prayed for him; and Ben, and still about Shara, he couldn’t stop, not even now.

 

He needed to get away, to go somewhere and _do_ something; he prayed for guidance, for courage, for the right words, any words.  He barely noticed who was here, now that he was still his mind was full of the past mixed up with the present, roses and horses and boys’ frightened eyes; but he knew it didn’t include any of the people whose forgiveness he needed the most.  

 

...

 

He was at the stable.  It wasn’t the Abbey’s stable.  This building was gone, long gone, it was burned and broken, it lived in a place he hadn’t been for a dozen years, it lived always in his heart, and it lived here and now.  The walls were collapsed, charred shells of themselves; no, they were cold and stark and made of bones, wet with the buckets and buckets of water that hadn’t saved them, all that water, and still they’d burned. No, it was still ablaze, he could feel the heat on his hands, on his face.

 

His father stood in the wreckage, still smiling at him as he always did in dreams, hands outstretched, **_BEN_ ** , he said, his voice full of love and regret.   No, it was Luke, standing among the bones and jagged shapes, eyes filmed, hand tangled in Exilium’s mane; **_BEN_ ** , he said, his voice full of questions and blame.  No, it was Timothy, perched atop a stall door, the building beyond, all the stalls, all the walls full of flames like water filling a cup, a sea of burning.   **_BEN_ ** , he said, his voice empty of everything.  WATCH THIS. And the smoke flowed over him like dark armor, a dagger afire in his fist, and he flung himself backwards into the stall, into the sea, into the flames.

 

Ben was running.  He could hardly stay upright, he could barely breathe, but he was RUNNING, into the stable, into the stall, into the conflagration.  He dove over the door to where Timothy had gone, into the fire that filled the stalls like churning waves, he closed his eyes to keep his courage and leapt.

 

There was nothing but fire, an ocean of it, roiling and burning and clamoring.  He tried to swim, to search, to listen; was that his name? The sea was burning, an inferno crashing onto an unseen shore, like the sound of gauntleted fists on steel, like the thunder of righteous anger, like falling wooden beams.  That was his name; below him, he could hear it. **_BEN_ **.  In his father’s voice, in a child’s voice, in the tongue of fire itself, and he dove, searching for something to save.  And he couldn’t breathe, but he had to breathe, so he gasped and now he was drowning, lungs searing as they filled with smoke and flame.

 

…

 

There was something in the room.  A light, a sound, Finn didn’t know what had woken him, but he felt as though there were enemies all around, and he needed to protect the caravan, the horses, to get to the scribe, to keep the foe from…no, he was in the Abbey, but he found himself standing on the cold stone floor, quarterstaff in his hands, putting himself between Benedictus and...what? There was nothing there.  He looked back at the bed to see that there was most definitely a battle being fought; Benedictus was struggling, arms thrashing in front of him, defending...fighting...no.

 

Finn recognized the motions of the man in the bed with a sudden chill; he’d made them himself, not long ago.  Brother Benedictus was _drowning_ ; reaching for anything he could grasp, choking thickly in the supposed safety of his own bed.  There was no water here, no current, not even smoke, but he was nevertheless drowning, and Finn remembered the pitch-dark cold of the River Wey and his fading hope of rescue, and he was afraid.  And as he watched, the battle seemed to be lost, Benedictus had stopped moving, one hand raised weakly toward Finn.

 

That was enough.  His quarterstaff clattering to the floor, Finn lunged forward onto the bed and reached for the hand with his own.  As their palms met he _pulled_ ; it was more difficult than it should have been, as though he really was dragging him from the clutches of a dark river.  They were eye to eye when Benedictus woke, surfacing with a splutter as he spoke in a hoarse rasp. “I couldn’t find him. I couldn’t save them.”  He was shaking, as cold to the touch as though he really had drowned, the normal sunlit teak of his eyes swallowed in dark pupil. That was quite enough.  The time for words was over. Finn pulled the other man into the circle of his arms as though he’d always belonged there.

 

Benedictus stiffened at first, somewhere aware enough to remember how he tried so desperately not to be touched; and then he gave in, harsh, racking sobs pouring out of him onto Finn’s shoulder, his own hands clutching convulsively at the fabric of Finn’s robe.  The next few minutes were nothing but wordless comfort, as Finn ran his hands gently up and down the other man’s back, rocked back and forth, and crooned indistinctly into his hair.

 

And the trickle of bond between them was now a flood; Finn could _feel_ the terror, the guilt, the sorrow, the heartache and solitude, and he could _feel_ as the awareness of safety, of help, of _touch_ crept into all of it as he held Benedictus, _BEN_ , and murmured, _shhhh, shhhhh, it’s all right, I’m here, you’re safe, I’m here_ .  He continued, talking, crooning, soothing, until he felt the heaving of the broad shoulders lessen under his hands, the ragged breathing began to grow more even, his heart slowing its hammering against Finn’s chest.  After a few moments, Ben raised his head from its place against Finn’s shoulder, the beautiful eyes inches from his own, and spoke. “ **YOU**.”

 

…

 

He’d stopped fighting.  It was better, he thought, if he sank, here in this devouring fiery ocean; if he were lost and could do no more harm.  He hadn’t found Timothy, his father, himself; he was drowning and burning, scorching and suffocating all at once. He’d seen his own hand trailing above him as he fell into the searing waves.  And then another hand had appeared, to clasp his own, and he’d been hauled out of the red-hot sea, out into the air and the cold and the shock of his own bed; and there were arms around him and he was _safe_ and he was home and he _knew_ , here was his warrior, he’d been here all along, and he could _feel_ Finn’s determination that nothing was to hurt him again.

 

There was so much he wanted to say, but all he could manage right now was a single word of recognition.  “ **YOU**.”  And he was still weeping, but it wasn’t the same, and he hadn’t known he could still cry like this, cleanly, with relief.  Finn’s face, too, was wet with tears; but Ben was surprised at the chuckle that rolled its way up and out of the other man’s mouth.  

 

...

 

He couldn’t help it.  He laughed. Hysterical laughter, perhaps, but laughter still.  “Yes, me. And thank God. I wondered how to make you understand.  But you insisted on being alone.” Finn set his hands on either side of Ben’s face.  “And you are NOT alone. Never again. You don’t have to fight on your own, you KNOW that, we’ve been with you so long, for such a distance.  I...was afraid you would never know me, I was afraid you were lost.” And now he was crying, all the frustration and the weariness and the fear spilling from him at once, and this time it was Finn who felt arms wrap around him, his head on Ben’s shoulder.  This time it was for his sake, his comfort. It was his turn to weep, to feel hands at his back, soothing the hurt until he could breathe easy again.

 

Reluctantly, Finn began to disentangle himself, to go back to his own bed as he felt his eyes closing.  He stopped as he felt a hand on his own. He turned back to find those eyes, so familiar, entreating him.  “Stay.” At that particular point in time, there was nothing he wanted more in the world. They settled down to sleep, together in the narrow bed, both with their arms still twined about the other, secure in the knowledge that they were known,  Finn smiling at the thought of sharing this joy with Rey. He would tell her in the morning. There was time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s true; these people are absolutely terrible communicators. Who knew that the way forward was to exhaust Finn’s seemingly inexhaustible patience? And Abbot Luke has been relying on some sort of personal bond to handle his horse. Huh. And the person who seems to understand family the best is the one who has no conscious memory of his parents, which seems odd, but isn’t. Because family is about who loves each other.
> 
> Finn is speaking Amharic to Exilium. “Aj” is “NO” and “qum” is “Stop!”
> 
> I’m not an expert on any of this, including horses, but I researched as best I could. This method of dealing with an aggressive horse is not for the faint of heart or for amateurs, I’m told, so don’t try it at home unless you happen to be an expert, in which case, all respect to you.
> 
> We hope you enjoyed that last part as much as we did. We’ve been waiting, too.


	19. Momentum et Miraculum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momentum et Miraculum: In which there isn’t as much time to talk as they thought there would be. In which Abbot Luke tries really hard to begin moving forward and to do right by at least one boy. In which Brother Lorcan proves once again to have surprising knowledge of a wider world, and the ability to see (and more importantly, to understand) what’s in front of him. In which Brother Finn is freaked out by illustration. In which someone finally checks on Brother Reymund, and Brother Ben is given the chance again to exceed his limits on behalf of someone else. And in which Rey’s hidden talents get even weirder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorcan and Luke both have things in their past that haven’t yet come fully to light. Things are easier, but still not easy. “The course of true love never did run smooth.” William Shakespeare knew what he was talking about; especially with magical and mystical forces at work.
> 
> A note on the Chapter title: I love questionable translations of Latin as much as I don’t love them. In this case: Momentum is moment, momentum, time, importance, and movement. Miraculum is miracle, amazement, surprise, prodigy. All of these are at work here.

When Luke arrived at the infirmarium, Lorcan had not been in the mood to be putting up with his nonsense.  He had Timothy’s arm to consider, not to mention his head, and no help since Benedictus had lit out of the place as though he’d seen a ghost.  Lorcan wouldn’t have been surprised at this point to learn that he had. The whole abbey was going to hell in a hurry. So he’d risen from his chair and headed for the door, calling back over his shoulder “If you’re going to keep hanging about of a night, the least you can do is watch him while I go and get a few things!”

 

The usual spots were curiously devoid of spiderwebs, at least that he could see by candlelight; odd, that.  Farther out he found a few, and with many apologies to the wee beasts for the disruption of their work, he brought them back; Timothy had earned himself a few cuts along with the broken arm and the bumped head.  Lorcan was already regretting his wayward tongue as he came back to the door; he wanted Luke to come to him whenever he had a need. He knew this was the only place Luke would allow himself to acknowledge his own frailty or his doubt.

 

He stopped with a hand at the latch, and listened to the words just audible from within the room.

 

“ _Te lucis ante terminum,_

_rerum Creator, poscimus_

_ut pro tua clementia_

_sis praesul et custodia._

_Procul recedant somnia_

_et noctium phantasmata;_

_hostemque nostrum comprime,_

_ne polluantur corpora._

_Praesta, Pater piissime,_

_Patrique compar Unice,_

_cum Spiritu Paraclito_

_regnans per omne saeculum._

_Amen_.”

 

The words continued after the prayer had ended, muffled at first, but Lorcan caught the end of them clearly enough.

 

“...another accident, another mistake, another boy in pain; Please! Lend me Your wisdom to know what to do.  Give me the words, and the strength, to do it right this time. Every boy, every life, every lesson You send me, I know, it’s a chance do what I can never seem to do for Ben; to help.  I’ve failed him, and I want to do better. Just show me how.”

 

Damn.  Well, if that didn’t take the wind fair out of his sails.  It was part of what he’d learned himself; your pure intentions of Heaven, the **_li_ ** , got cluttered up with earthly concerns, with self-interest and your own pain; it could hardly be helped, weak **_qi_ ** -flesh as He’d made us all.  It was in study and in serving others that you returned to your path.  It had taken him a long time to learn that, after his Lark had gone.

 

Those weren’t the right words for Luke, though, not for a man who thought shouting at the Almighty was a good way to ask for help.  He was constipated with orthodoxy, among other things; he wouldn’t approve of the more interesting philosophies Lorcan had collected on the long way home.  He took a moment to ask for guidance to the right words himself, and opened the door. Luke was scrubbing a sleeve across his eyes, pretending he was in control as usual; but he had hold of Timothy’s good hand in both of his own, and he hadn’t let go at the sound of the door.  Interesting.

 

Lorcan went about the business of treating the cuts and wrapping the arm to keep it as it should be while it healed; he’d taken the precaution of giving the boy something beforehand, to spare him any pain.  Once that was done there was nothing but to sit; and who was to know if they each had an entirely medicinal cup of beer? There were, after all, a limited number of ways in which to get his old friend to unclench himself.  Beer and companionable silence seemed to be two of the better ones.

 

He could see by the stiffness as Luke settled himself in the chair that he’d been at it with the scourge again.  Lorcan reached for the jar of salve without comment; this was old routine with the two of them; scourge, salve, repeat, and he was frankly too tired to argue about it tonight.  He’d been nodding for a while, he wasn’t sure how long, when Luke spoke; he took his sleep where he could get it, after all, he’d learned that on the Silk Road.

 

“I should have made sure he knew better.”  This utterance seemed to be directed at the opposite wall; Luke certainly wasn’t looking at Lorcan.  “I knew, they told me, that he’d fallen in love with the stables, horses, all of it. It started as a penance, did I tell you?  I found him sleeping in a broom closet when he was meant to be at prayers. And you know how I feel about that. I thought an afternoon shoveling dung would cure him of that notion. But he came himself to ask me if he could be sent there again.”  Luke laughed. “Bold, this one.”

 

He set the empty mug down on one of the shelves.  “Daniel says he’s good. He’s young, but he’ll be very good when he’s grown.  I didn’t think I needed to warn him about Exilium, just look at him, he should’ve known better than that.”

 

Lorcan raised an eyebrow.  “And did you know any better, when you were his age?”  

 

Luke answered with a wry twist of his mouth.  “That was a very long time ago. And...things were different, for me, for my sister, when we were his age.”

 

Lorcan winced.  That was true. He’d known that history, none of it pleasant, some of it what had driven Luke to join a Crusade while still in his teens.  They hadn’t yet met, then; not until Luke had nearly lost his hand toward the end of that benighted enterprise. Neither of them had had any business being in Alexandria, and they’d both been a very long way from home.  “Well, I still remember; some, anyway. There was a lot of doing things without any clear idea why; sometimes in a vague hope of being noticed, sometimes for no reason at all. **_Ní thagann ciall roimh aois_ ** , after all.”

 

Luke shot him an exasperated look.  “Lorcan, you know I don’t…”

 

“Sense comes with age.”  That had them both laughing; you spent your whole life thinking that must be true, because that’s what the grown folk told you; only to find when you’d reached their ages and beyond that no one really had any idea what they were doing at all.  The big lie, that was; it was always a shock to realize that everyone was making it up as they went along. Timothy stirred, and smiled in his sleep; perhaps he’d heard them laughing.

 

Luke looked at the boy.  “Well. I think...I think I have a way, to let this one serve God in the way that suits him best.”  More and more surprising by the minute. “We’ve got a decent stable, or the beginnings of one; if he decides to stay, Timothy, I mean, we could train him to help Daniel, and some day to take over from him.  But we’ll need some...easier horses, at first, for Timothy, for any of the other boys who seem to have a knack. Definitely smaller ones, at least.” He smiled down at the small form on the cot. “Will he be able?  The arm, I mean, will he be able to keep working in the stables, when it’s healed?”

 

Lorcan shrugged.  “That’s in God’s hands, you know that; but I’ve done my best.  The bones are straight; most likely the hard part will be keeping him still as he gets to feeling better.”

 

Luke nodded absently as he stroked his beard.  “He was trying to impress Ben, I think, did you know?  That’s what he said, before he did it. ‘Ben, watch this!’  I don’t know what those two could possibly have in common. And I still don’t understand what Ben was doing at the stables.  Yes, I know what you’re going to say. That’s what I was doing, trying to talk to him. But he…” His mouth clamped shut in a grim line. Whatever had interfered between them this time, Luke wasn’t going to share it.  There was a gusty sigh.

 

“I feel like Sisyphus, Lorcan.  Just trying to get the same boulder up a hill, over and over, and finding myself at the bottom again, having gone nowhere.”  His face was full of sadness, and memory. “I’m always finding myself back at the beginning. Back to being no help to Ben at all, back at the fire...back on the Road, in Spain…”   Luke’s eyes were far away from here and now. Lorcan could feel the effort it took to bring himself back here, into this room. He wished he could explain the things Timothy and Ben had in common.  But that wasn’t his story to tell, neither of them were; and he’d eat his own tongue before he let either of those poor boys’ secrets out of his mouth.

 

He was startled by the next sentence; Lorcan thought he must have missed something.  “That settles it. We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll take Daniel, and Finn; Dismus can handle the stable for a few days.”

 

Lorcan was baffled.  “Leave for where? You’re leaving?”    He was giving himself a strain trying to follow this conversation.  Not a moment ago, Luke had been trapped in his own past, thinking of the woman he’d loved, but could never have had.  Shara had been her name, he thought. He’d tried to help Luke understand; that you could remember them, loved, lost, or never found at all, without letting them haunt you.  But never mind that. “Where are you going, that you’ve got to leave so soon? And…”, he interrupted himself with a huge yawn, “...it is tomorrow, almost.”

 

“Norwich, to buy the horses.  So when his arm is healed,” he gestured at Timothy, “they’ll be here, and he can get started.  Is it? Best go and get things ready, then. I’ll need to go and wake Daniel, then Brother Finn…”

 

That was a terrible idea.  Ben had been in quite a state on his way out of this very room.  Lorcan wanted the two of them to talk, Lord knew, but the last thing the boy needed was his uncle barging into his room in the middle of the night; a night that was unlikely to be a good one for Ben. That would not end well.  So…

 

“I’ll go and get Brother Finn.  Callum came through on his way to bed and mentioned he’d been injured, too; a cut, nothing more, but I might as well have a look at it before you go haring off across the countryside in the dark; and I need a stretch.”  He shook his head at Luke. “And you’ve got to let that sit on your back as long as you can, or it’s nowhere you’ll be going on horseback. You sit with Timothy, here, until I get back, and get the little sleep you can. And...remind yourself why you’re going.”

 

It was probably more sleep than Lorcan had had himself.  But Luke settled obediently enough back into the chair, looking thoughtful and a little chastened.

 

Lorcan was doubly glad he’d volunteered when he got to their room.  He knocked, but there was no answer, so he opened the door as quietly as he could.  Well. That was an interesting development. And weren’t they just the picture of peace?  It brought a smile to his face. Time spent among the Mosuo had left Lorcan comfortable with any number of unusual arrangements, but he wasn’t sure what Luke would think.  He had no idea what this might become, and with a young woman in the middle of it and all, but **_Is leor don dreoilín a nead._ **  The nest is enough, for a wren; whatever made them happy was home.  He only hated to wake them.

 

…

 

Finn woke without moving, as though he knew instinctively not to disturb the man sleeping next to him.  Why was he awake? He unwound himself slowly from Ben, happy to have only elicited a low mumble. Only then did he notice with a start that there was someone else in the room.  The light of a candle, carefully shielded with one hand, revealed the visitor to be Brother Lorcan. Finn looked down at the bed’s other occupant; he was beautiful, and for once, untroubled.  “Don’t wake him. Please? He’s had a difficult night.”

 

Lorcan’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.  “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m here for you, not him.” His face grew more serious  “And we haven’t much time, I’m afraid. Abbot Luke has taken a notion to go and buy horses and you’re to go with him.”  He held up a hand as Finn opened his mouth, that low simmer of outrage back as if it had never left. “Better you should not ask.  Pack up your things and be ready to go, before it’s the abbot himself knocking next.”

 

That would definitely wake him.  What was he meant to do? He wanted to say something, he wanted to let Ben know what was happening; but there was so much he couldn’t say, and how was Ben likely to react if Finn woke him up now to say he was leaving?  Brother Lorcan seemed kind, and he hadn’t questioned why one of the beds was empty; but there was so much more, the demon, the dreams, the bond between the three of them. The THREE of them. Rey was going to be very confused and very, very angry.  

 

He needed to say something to them both, Ben and Rey. But it was too big a risk, there were too many secrets, and there was supposed to have been time.  If he wanted to stay here, he’d best move when the abbot said “Go.” Even _this_ abbot.  And he very much needed to stay. “... _Stay.”_  Finn deliberately relaxed his jaw where his teeth had begun to grind together, and got out of the bed.  There was a crackle of parchment under his foot. That was odd. Ben was normally very careful about his things.  He reached down absently to pick up the parchment.

 

Finn froze halfway to the other bed.  He’d thought the stone floor was cold on his feet, but it was warm compared to the way he felt as his eyes lighted on the illustration.  It wasn’t Ben’s work; he knew that, he could recognize that anywhere. It was the subject that had stopped him in his tracks. He knew that sword, he’d last seen it point-deep in the bone-littered earth, those gauntleted hands on the pommel.  He knew those wings, lightless and ebon; they’d grown larger in his eyes as he watched, trapped and helpless in vision. And he knew...no, not here. There was no one behind the helm. The man in the armor was gone.

 

The painting swam before his eyes; until he looked back behind him, at the bed he’d just left.  He was there. BEN. He was real, unarmored, unmasked, and unbroken. He was solid and warm, and Finn could hear him breathing.   He must do anything he could to stay in this place until he’d made sure that this, what was written here, would never come to be. He didn’t even know, yet, what the words said; and there was no time.  “...Brother Finn? Is everything all right?” That was Lorcan, he was still here, why wouldn’t he go away?

 

It was time to move again, to speak.  “Yes, all is well, I was merely considering what I might need for the journey.”  And he was, now that he was moving again. There wasn’t much to pack. He didn’t have much.  His satchel, that went with him everywhere; though the idea of days in Abbot Luke’s company carrying a stolen gift from this very abbey was not an especially pleasant one.  His scribe’s tools and parchment and some clothing would go in there easily enough as well.

 

Finn looked down at the parchment still in his hand; he’d crumpled it in his fist.  He didn’t believe he had ever before done such a thing. He smoothed out the page, face-down, on his bed, then folded it in the same lines in which it had been creased and added it to his satchel.  Wait. He used a stylus and a fragment of parchment to scribble a hasty note. “ _Sent with Abbot Luke to buy horses; yes, me.  Will soon return. Tell Reymund. The folded page is safe.  -F_.” and left it on the table by his own bed.  It was the best he could do; all that was left was to put his satchel over his shoulder and go.

 

…

 

“A moment, Brother Finn.  Let me have a look at your arm.”  Lorcan got a thoroughly confused look in return, as though he hadn’t even remembered the injury until he’d been reminded.  It was only an excuse as it was, to see any sign of what exactly had happened just now; something had unnerved Brother Finn so badly that it had audibly stopped his breath; Lorcan had heard the slight gasp as it started again.  

 

The cut was coming along nicely (oh, that’s where some of the spiderwebs had gone), though Finn seemed to be sweating despite the chill of the room.  A look at his face revealed nothing; the unnatural swiftness of the pulse in his wrist was the only other sign. So. It would take time to earn their trust, these three.  It was the work of a few minutes to redress the wound, using what he’d brought with him; and they were off to roust Daniel from his bed. Lorcan was becoming quite good, he thought, at pretending total ignorance of what his eyes and ears told him.

 

…

 

It was the silence that woke him.  Ben had grown used to the small sounds of someone else in the room, since Finn had come.  It had been some small comfort to hear another person moving about in his cell, to hear breathing that was not his own; even the snoring had reminded him of another nearby presence.  Several breaths passed as he came to remember last night’s...miracle, that was the only word. Ben wasn’t certain how long he’d slept, but he felt more rested than he could remember being in...than he could remember at all.  Now, though, he was alone in the bed; the sounds and the _feel_ of someone else, so much more warm and familiar up close, were missing.  

 

A glance at his small window told him it wasn’t yet morning.  Why was Finn gone if it was still dark? He was alone again. He’d imagined it all.  That was a dream more cruel than any that had come before. Ben fumbled with the fire steel in his belt pouch; wait, where was the parchment?  He’d been reading it, falling into it, unable to stop, and...he’d fallen asleep and that DREAM and then Brother Finn had come...or had he? Stop.  Think. The fire steel trembled in his hand as he reached for the tinderbox, no, he had to be careful, always careful with fire. He took a few slow, deliberate breaths, then lit the candle.

 

The dancing flame revealed that it was worse than he’d thought.  Finn’s things were gone. His satchel, he almost never let that out of his sight, even his clothes seemed to be missing.  What…? Ben searched the room for the manuscript page, had Finn found it, seen it, had he _known_ , so disgusted that he’d left in the middle of the night?  There was a scrap of parchment on the table by the other bed.  It seemed blank, at first; but Ben had sketched and laid out too many pages of drypoint not to know the distinct scratches, when he saw them in the shadows thrown by his candle.  

 

It was a message clearly meant for another scribe; for him.  “ _Sent with Abbot Luke to buy horses; yes, me.  Will soon return. Tell Reymund. The folded page is safe.  -F_ .”  “ **Yes, me** .”  Relief flooded through him at those two words.  It wasn’t his imagination, or some new merciless dream.  He hadn’t been abandoned. “The folded page”...so Finn _had_ found the parchment; but...he’d still taken the time to write this, to reassure Ben that he wasn’t alone again, that he was still coming back.  That was important.

 

Buying horses?  They’d left while it was still dark?  He had so many _questions_ !  “Tell Reymund.”  Brother Reymund..who’d arrived with Brother Finn, who’d travelled with him; Finn had said **we’ve** been with you, there were two of them, there had always been two, but he had to _know_ , to _see_.  He was fully dressed in seconds, candle in hand, and out the door.

 

Why he’d stopped at the scriptorium, he would never know.  The memory of having left his tools where they lay? Just the feeling that everything was about to change?  Ben decided not to question the impulse, but instead to just pack up his own tools and inks. He left what remained in the proper order it deserved; it was only right.  His feet were cold and wet with dew by the time he’d crossed the lawn to the guest house.

 

It wasn’t until he was inside the guest house that Ben realized he had no idea which room belonged to Brother Reymund.  He was standing just inside the door, feeling foolish, when he heard a low, rasping cough coming from the same room he’d occupied, when he first came to St Augustine’s.  The coughs ended in the indrawn gasp of someone who couldn’t catch their breath. Ben knocked on the door. “Brother Reymund?” It was late. “I’m...sorry. I need to speak with you.  Please.”

 

There was no answer.  But there was more coughing, and something that sounded like breaking pottery.  He was on the other side of the door before the coughing stopped. Reymund was standing by the bed, doubled over as the fit passed. Ben set the candle down on the windowsill; careful, always know where the fire was. There were clothes on the floor; a cowl and scapular, and some kind of bandages; and what looked like a cup of water broken next to the table.   “Brother Reymund? Are you all right?” Wasn’t he supposed to have gone to Lorcan?

 

Reymund straightened, shaking his head;”...I…” and Ben could see the blood drain out of his face as he fell forward.  Two strides took him across the room, where he caught Reymund by the arms. His face felt like live coals against Ben’s shoulder.  But it wasn’t just heat. It was the same feeling of _home_ he’d felt last night when he and Finn had held each other..  With the distance between them finally closed, he knew. He could _feel_ wordless relief, frustration, wonder...and he could feel that here was his…”Angel.  Here you are, you...But you’re burning with fever. We need to get you to Brother Lorcan.”

 

There was movement against his chest as Reymund feebly pushed away, then raised his head to look at Ben. “N…no...”  He shook his head, seemingly unable to muster a coherent sentence. He was still tilted forward at a precarious angle, his robe hanging loose; and those were...those were…small, beautifully rounded...  Ben’s head shot up as he stared incredulously at Reym...who…he couldn’t think. “You...you’re...those are…” He looked down again. He couldn’t help himself. _Stop it.  Look up._

 

His angel looked down at herself.  HERSELF. And with perfect clarity, said “Oh.  Those are breasts.” She smiled at him.

 

“I know what they are!”  He winced as her face fell and her eyes watered.  “No, I’m sorry, no, I was surprised, that’s all, you...I was expecting…”  This wasn’t going at all the way he’d thought. He remembered last night, and laid his hands on either side of her face.   “I’m sorry, I’m a little…it’s not you, you’re perfect.” She was. Heat shot up through his face, swift and scalding, settling uncomfortably in his ears. “I’m an idiot.  You’re...What’s your _name_?  I don’t know your name!”

 

She smiled at him again; he thought his heart might stop.  “Rey. ‘m Rey.” She pulled one of his hands away from her face and set her own small palm against it with deliberate concentration, then looked at the two hands together, which seemed to amuse her to no end, if the chortling was any indication.  “ ‘N you’re Ben.” Looking back at his face seemed to cost her enough effort that she almost toppled over again; which she avoided by wrapping both her arms around him. That was its own kind of wonderful.

 

Rey.  Her name was Rey.  And Ben could have stayed exactly like this forever; but...what was he going to _do_ with her?  He understood now why she hadn’t gone to Lorcan; Ben himself avoided those all-too-perceptive eyes as much as he could.  Brother Lorcan would know exactly what to do. But he was Uncle Luke’s, _Abbot_ Luke’s oldest friend, of course he’d tell Luke, and then the secret would be out and Reymund...no REY, would be sent away, or worse; and there was not a ghost of a chance that Ben was going to let that happen. They belonged together, and now that he’d found her he knew that without a shadow of doubt.

 

He couldn’t leave her like this, though.  She was coughing again, into his chest. Ben knew that cough, he’d sounded just the same himself, as a child; it wasn’t just a summer cold, especially not with a fever like this.  He’d been miserable for what had seemed like an eternity, but really hadn’t been as long as everyone expected, thanks to…He knew exactly who could help. And she’d understand...this.  She ought to, she’d arrived at his mother’s estate in more or less the same situation. His mother. Never mind; that was something Ben could avoid when he got there.

 

“Rey.  Look at me.  Rey?” She loosened her arms around him with seeming reluctance and tilted her face up to look at him again.  Her eyes were glassy. “I know someone who can help you; not Lorcan, a woman. I trust her. We just have to get there.  Can you come with me while I figure out what to do?” She nodded. “Good. Take my arm.” She clutched his arm with both of hers, which made her smile again for some reason.  He remembered Finn’s arms around him, which unaccountably sent another hot blush across his face.

How was he going to get her to Salisbury in this state?  Rey wasn’t going to make it on foot. They were going to need  a horse. Ben was faintly nauseated at the thought. That meant going to the stables.  Cold settled in his belly; he was beginning to hear the screams again.

 

There was a tugging at his arm; he looked down to find her hazel eyes filled with concern. How did she…? Rey reached up to lay one hand on his cheek, and the screams faded to a whisper.  He was still afraid; but she needed him. That would have to be enough. He would have to be enough. He stopped to gather the clothes from the floor, and the rest of her things, and put them in his bag; she didn’t have much, and then picked up the candle with his free hand.  Ben was holding her upright as they made their way to the guest house door; but he knew she was supporting him too.

 

…

 

She was freezing. No, she was roasting, like the pine nuts on their campfire. Maybe it was both. It didn't matter; he was here.  He was HERE and he knew her and he called her angel and she was, but she told him she was Rey and her name was on his lips, those beautiful, perfect lips, and she would be an angel for him as soon as she could stop coughing but he was HERE and he was letting her touch him so she did, his hand, his arms, his face and she loved touching him like she loved touching Finn but he was different, himself ... **BEN** ; he was Ben, his thoughts told her so, and that was good.  And they were going somewhere, she didn’t know where, but they were going together.

 

…

 

It must be close to dawn by now.  Work at the stables started early, he still remembered that.  Someone might see them if they went into the building, and...he looked down at her.  REY. She was stumbling along beside him; she looked up as he thought her name, her face completely trusting.  He wasn’t sure he could trust her to be quiet, though, not as sick as she was. So the main stables were out of the question.  That only left...oh no. No. Not him. The nausea was considerably less faint now. He was going to have to steal his uncle’s horse.

 

There was the tugging on his arm again.  She was shaking her head. “Don’t…” She patted his cheek.  “...’s all right.” She peeled one of her arms away from his to point at the tack shed. “There.”  He was mystified, but he guided her toward the outbuilding. It still smelled of smoke; his breathing tightened, sight contracting down to a single scorch mark on one of the beams of the door.  The roaring in his ears was interrupted by Rey squeezing his hand. “Shhh.” She separated herself from him and walked slowly to a cart; right, they’d come here with a donkey cart.

 

Rey held herself upright with the side rail of the cart while she fumbled with something at the bottom.  There was a creak, and part of the cart just..opened. Ben was fascinated. He stepped closer to see a compartment set into the conveyance; it had been invisible while it was closed.  Rey pulled out a bag and handed it to him; there was the clink of metal from inside, and...a glint of blue caught his eye from the darkness of the hidden space, picked out by his candle.  He leaned forward for a better look. Hidden in the innocuous-looking donkey cart was a _sword;_ and carved into it were markings Ben _knew_.  He’d grown up looking at them; the blue, the twin suns.  Those would be everywhere where they were going. They were the symbols of his mother’s House.

 

He shot Rey a look.  There was no way she was going to explain this right now.  She looked confused, and a little flustered; and suddenly her eyes were far away, the pupils enormous, as she spoke.  “The Hospitaller’s blade/shall dwell in secret with the pilgrim’s gift/’Til Angel, Poet, Warrior are one.” Every hair on Ben’s body bristled at once.  Oh, hell.

 

No.  No time to think about that.  Someone was going to see them.  He put enough from the bag into his own belt pouch to cover the coins they might need on the way to Salisbury, and put the bag back in its place next to that impossible sword, whose implications he was _not_ going to consider at this exact moment.  Or...no. Rey, eyes back to normal, or as close as they could be right now, closed the...door?  Hatch? and it was as though it had never been there. Close enough. There was no time.

 

It was only a few short steps to Exilium’s stall, separate from the others.  Ben’s ears were ringing. The stallion was wearing a halter, but no saddle. It would have to do.  What should he...you talked to them. That was what Finn had done, his voice gentle, his words calming. It was the first time Ben had ever wished he were a horse. But now he had to do the talking, and he was cold again, and he could hear...it was impossible.  He looked at Rey, clinging to the stall door. Impossible wasn’t something he could afford. Ben cleared his throat; the stallion shied, setting his heart pounding.

 

“Stay where you are.  Good. Be still. I…need your help.  Not for me. For her. She’s…” His voice broke.  How was he supposed to do this? Ben stepped closer to Exilium on legs that seemed to be made of jelly.  He raised a hand and laid it on the stallion’s neck. That wasn’t enough. He set his head beside it and just thought, and talked; he could barely hear himself, sort of a hoarse whisper.  “She’s sick, and I need to take her to someone who can help, and I have to be fast. I’ve been waiting, so long, for her, and for him; for Finn. They’re here to save me; ME. I don’t understand that, but I know I need them.”

 

He ran one hand down the stallion’s side as he went on; it was harder to talk now.  “I can’t do this alone. I thought I could, _should_ do this alone.  Otherwise, people get hurt; around me, because of me, because of the...the demon, it won’t let me _go_ , it’s always there, and it laughs, and people _die_ .  Like _he_ died.  But I tried it alone, and people are still getting hurt; and they’re here, they’re with me, and maybe it’s going to be better, maybe we can fight, us, together.  You don’t know what any of this means. That’s all right.” He stroked the stallion’s neck. “But before we can do that, I need to take care of Rey.”

 

He thought back to the rest of the day...the same day, it couldn’t be, but it was.  “I know you didn’t mean to hurt Timothy, I know he scared you; you just don’t know how to listen.”  He laughed; it was a little bitter. “Neither do I. At least you listen to Luke, I couldn’t do that either, that’s how all this got out of control, that’s why…I don’t _deserve_ to be saved.”  The words wouldn’t come; there was a small sigh, from the stall door.  Rey had put her head on her arms.

 

He had to get moving. _She_ deserved to be saved.  “That’s why I don’t come here.  It’s not you, not really. You just need some help; you’re strong, and swift, and beautiful, and if you learn to listen, you can do anything.  You have to listen. Because I didn’t listen, and there was...so much death. Your kin, and mine. My fault. It was my fault, and…and I’m sorry.  I’m sorry they burned, that they died, I’m sorry I can’t look at you without hearing it again, I’m sorry I keep bringing it all down on the people I...I’m just sorry.”  There was a strangled noise. Oh. That was him.

 

Rey raised her head again; there were tears on her face where she stood by the stall door, on his own cheeks, and in Exilium’s mane. The stallion had gone still, no longer taking nervous steps, or snorting, or moving his head; one long-lashed eye fixed on Ben’s face.  The proud neck arched, head lowering toward Ben’s own; it was all he could do not to flinch, remembering all the teeth; and there was a warm rush of air down his neck and shoulder as Exilium huffed a breath into his hair. He hoped it was enough.

 

Hands on the halter, he opened the stall door and led the somehow cooperative stallion out into the grass by the fence.  Rey held her arms out toward him without a word; when he’d regained his breath, he spanned her waist with his own hands and lifted her onto Exilium’s back. She wavered.   “Hold on, I’ve got you.” He set a foot on the fence and levered himself onto the broad back behind her. She sank gratefully back against his chest; Ben set an arm around Rey’s waist and took the reins.  

 

Praying he remembered his long-ago lessons well enough, he nudged Exilium with his knees.  There was an irritated snort and a sweep of mane as the stallion flung his head to one side, and then they were moving and Ben was on a HORSE and God help them both, but he was going to make sure Rey was safe; whatever it took, he would do.  They were here to save him, both of them, he knew; it was his turn to save her first. He could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank goodness these three have Brother Lorcan looking out for them. Even if they don’t know it.
> 
> It’s always fun to consider how mystical talents and connections might interact with illness. Enhancement? Dampening? Or just weirdness? Spin the wheel?
> 
> Another moment (and miracle) we hope you enjoyed as much as we did. We’ve been waiting for this one too.


	20. Equitatio et Eripio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Equitation and Escape: In which Brother Ben discovers that he is an indoor sort of Ben and has no idea how to operate outside his familiar surroundings. In which Rey has discovered that Ben is within reach, finally. In which mystical forces, fever and finally knowing each other continue to be a very odd combination; and in which the Fates take a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having retreated from the outside world means our Brother Ben hasn't the faintest idea how to operate in it. He has struggled, but he's also been sheltered, and now he's in charge; someone's depending on him.

Finn was close to dozing in the saddle.  It wasn’t yet dawn; and they were already on their way.  He’d just been so tired. The day had started well enough; was it still the same day? But there had been so much; in that day, in the days before. So much struggle, and pain, and striving; and then it had happened.  A miracle. He was _known_ .  Finn wrapped the feeling of being known around him like a blanket, as they’d wrapped themselves around each other.  And Benedictus...no, BEN. He and Ben had known each other, suddenly, wonderfully just _known_.  The details, the stories, would come.  There was time for that. It would all be easier now.

 

The way was level, and the pace was slow; Abbot Luke rode stiffly, as though his back pained him.  He’d chosen the gentler, more obedient mares for this trip; they followed the rider in front without really needing any direction.  Finn tried his best to stay awake; it would be mortifying to fall off his horse when he’d been given the job of training horses, not to mention the possibility of being accidentally trampled.  But the rhythmic, swaying motion and the sound of hooves was hypnotic, and he was just tired. And his eyes were closing.

 

His shoulder was hot.  And then there were hazel eyes, like green leaves and dark earth, looking into his own, and then his face was hot.  No, not his face...was it? Finn could just separate the feelings, the images from his own mind. He was looking down at her.  HER. Which meant he wasn’t using his own eyes. And those...Finn could feel the hot blush spread across his own face, just as it had in a cave on the Rock of Gibraltar.  Oh. Poor Ben. That...was a very interesting collection of feelings. It was astonishing that one person could contain them all. Joy, to be sure, and surprise, panic, bewilderment, chagrin, and oh, yes, that too.  Poor Ben indeed. He knew the feeling...and Finn woke up in the middle of a laugh.

 

Abbot Luke and Brother Daniel were giving him identical perplexed looks, which did absolutely nothing to help Finn’s self-control.  It took more effort than he would have imagined to regain a semblance of sobriety, and a few snickers escaped after he’d thought he was finished.  “Brother Finn?” That was Daniel; he looked concerned as well as puzzled. Abbot Luke said nothing, but his frosty expression and raised eyebrow were inquiry enough.

 

“I...am sorry.  I fell asleep; I must have been dreaming.  It has been a very long day.” He shot a look back at Abbot Luke that was not entirely friendly.  Finn couldn’t help it; he was still absolutely furious that Timothy had been hurt, that Ben had been allowed to believe himself alone for so long; that he had _been_ alone, among so many.  But he couldn’t afford to give that anger rein; he must be obedient, and cooperative, and someone the abbot would want to stay.

 

“... _Stay_ …” he heard again, deep, and soft, and full of longing.  Finn gathered his will, schooling himself to calm. “I don’t remember what was so amusing, I’m afraid, or I would share it with both of you.”  He smiled; sociable, all comradeship. And they were not alone. This was not a confrontation Finn wanted to have in the presence of others; or right now, at all.  Daniel smiled back, shaking his head. The abbot’s expression returned to its normal level of sternness, the wariness fading from his eyes. Anger would have to wait.

 

…

 

Ben’s truce with the horse; with himself, really, didn’t last as long as he’d have liked.  Exilium was under the best of circumstances not a manageable mount, and Ben knew he was hardly the best of circumstances.  Here he was, haring off to Salisbury (no, no, he’d better not think about that until later, as late as possible) with a woman in monk’s clothing who was entirely too ill to explain anything, on the saddleless back of a stolen stallion.  And he only had one hand on the reins, because the other was holding Rey in front of him, her head on his chest, and THAT; well, that was an entirely wonderful part of this whole business that had nothing to do with how he felt about the rest of it.

 

That was its own problem as well, though; it was very, very hard to concentrate on controlling the horse while she was pressed against his front, and he was a monk, and she was...not a monk, but she was ill, and he should not be enjoying this nearly as much as he was.  Exilium required his full concentration, to remember what he’d been taught as a child, to keep up the flow of words and praise, to keep his hand steady on the reins. Ben pulled back on the reins; he was reasonably certain that was how you said Stop!, and the stallion did stop, but not until after he’d shied and danced in place a little, which made Ben’s heart race and his hands shake.

 

“Hmm?”  Rey raised her head where she’d been leaning against him, half-asleep.  She reached a hand up to pat his hair, as if she needed to know he was still there, or maybe needed him to know that she was; it was all very confusing.  “Shhhhh…”, she said. They needed each other. He had to do better than this. She needed better than this.

 

“Rey?”  She turned her head to look at him as best she could from this angle; still glassy-eyed, but awake.  “I’ve got to be in front, I think, to do this. I need both my hands, and I need to see. Can you stay up here, while I get down and...get back on in front of you?  Can you put your arms around me and hold onto me as we go?” Her smile was dazzling; he wasn’t sure why that idea seemed to make her so happy. But when he could think again, Ben assumed that meant she could, and a nod confirmed it.  

 

He guided Exilium to a nearby boulder and halted him again.  A step down and back up, and he was sitting in front of Rey. She wriggled closer to him and closed her arms around him.  His breath caught; but it was easier this way. Exilium hadn’t cared much for the change, though; he tossed his head and sidestepped a bit.  Ben fought the whitening of his vision; this was normal, wasn’t it? Just a horse being a horse? Nothing was wrong. He could do this.

 

Rey’s voice came from behind him, clear as a bell aside from being spoken into his back.

 

“And all/

His courage needed, mem'ry to surmount

To aid an angel laid low, with wings clipp'd.

His own turmoil set aside, to save

And shelter, 'til the three again are one.”

 

Oh, damnation, that again.  That was very, very unsettling.  And accurate, if not very helpful.  He knew that; it was up to him to look after her, this time. But why on earth had she started sounding like a manuscript?  Ben remembered Brother Reymund, as he’d thought her to be, in the scriptorium, writing all unseeing the contents of his nightmares.  

 

Except that now she was awake...mostly awake, at any rate.  Whose words were those? Whose page had that been? It didn’t matter at the moment; it was Rey that was important. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do, to see her safe.  An instant later, there was a pleased-sounding hum against his shoulder-blade and her arms tightened around him. Oh. That...yes. He could do this. He set a hand on Exilium’s shoulder, was that what you called it?  He wished he knew more about horses than his lessons of more than a dozen years ago. Ben thought about his need to protect Rey, as they’d both supported and protected him; he thought about his need to _talk_ to someone, to them, both of them, about all this.  

 

He thought about his need to go home; to go back to the place he’d been born.  The stallion made a soft sound, almost like a cat’s purr, but different. Ben lifted his hand and slapped the reins gently against Exilium’s back, and was pleased when he began calmly walking forward.  Rey was coughing again, strident sounds against his back. He patted her hands where they were clasped around his middle and helped her keep her hold on him until the coughing subsided. “I know. I’ve got you.  Just let me take care of everything.” He was almost sure he could do that. From behind him there was a sigh.

 

The way wasn’t difficult.  They were travelling through woods for the most part.  Ben really had only the vaguest idea where he was going.  He hadn’t really left the abbey since he’d first arrived twelve years ago.  He’d read a lot of travel journals and accounts; pilgrims, mostly. The pilgrim road was something he’d rather avoid, as were any large towns or cities; but he did know that Salisbury lay almost due west of Canterbury, and a little to the south.  West and east he could manage. He just squinted at the sun every once in a while to make sure he was still on track.

 

Rey was quiet behind him, but her arms around him and the joining of her hands told him she was still well enough to keep her hold.  There was a lot of coughing; he tried to slow Exilium down a little when that happened, so she could stay on more easily, but the stallion didn’t much care for having his pace controlled.  Sometimes if it was bad, Ben reached an arm back behind him to try to support her. Every once in a while, between bouts of coughing, she would loosen one of her hands and just...touch him.  It was a disconcerting, but not at all unpleasant sensation. The problem was more that he found it too appealing.

 

Rey’s hand would alight on his hair, or his shoulder, like a little bird, and just sort of...explore him. He did have to very gently discourage her when she discovered one of his ears; that was entirely too much for his brittle concentration to take, and when he started, so did Exilium. Ben was hanging on to his ability to do this with teeth and fingernails, and sudden movements from the horse were enough to send him dizzy and blind.

 

There was a “shhhh” from Rey as she stroked his shoulder, which did make him feel better; but it was a bad few minutes bringing his thoughts back together enough to settle the stallion. This was made more challenging by the fact that Ben still had no idea how he was doing that.  He only knew that the more calm he was, the better this worked. Which was a shame, because he was on a HORSE, and serenity was not exactly at his fingertips. On a _stolen_ horse, absent without permission, with a woman impersonating a monk who was too sick to talk.  Now his thoughts were going in circles. This was very, very far away from his idea of calm.

 

Ben did wonder, though, what it would be like to do the same, what Rey was doing; to touch just for the sake of knowing how she felt.  He shook his head, shoving the thought aside. He’d taken _vows_ ; and even if he hadn’t, she wasn’t herself.  He should be thinking about her safety, not the intriguing curve of her ear, like a coiled fern, that he could feel pressed against him through his robe; or any other intriguing curves, for that matter. She and Finn were both made of lines and curves he would love to draw; but only one of them was currently nestled warmly against his spine. Oh, hell.  His face must be as hot as hers.

 

Having reached some kind of equilibrium between himself and the stallion, Ben rode west.  Rey held on to him and occasionally petted him, as though he were a hound; absently, as you might for comfort while drowsing by a fire.  He thought she probably was half-asleep for most of it. There were a few farms along the way; Ben stuck to the small lanes and grass as much as he could.  Since she couldn’t do much talking, he did. He talked about the countryside as they rode through it; Ben might not have gone anywhere, but he’d read everything on which he could lay hands.

 

As they rode past oak trees, he told Rey about how oak galls were used to make ink; sort of apple-shaped things that grew on oak trees.  You had to gather pounds of them and boil them in rainwater, he’d read, with gum and vitriol and wine; Ben didn’t know how, but this produced the finest black ink.  “Like the ink you used, when you drew in the scriptorium. Did you know you were doing that, in the middle of the night? How…? He wasn’t sure he could ask this question.  He wasn’t certain she could answer it. And he was not at all sure that he wanted to know. The thought of the empty, midnight darkness of those wings made him shudder.

 

“Both what has been and what must never be/Wait, spinning; trapp’d, unable to emerge/Full measure both, of joy and agony/To bring to light, else ‘neath dark fire submerge.”  There was an indrawn breath; she seemed as surprised as he was at what she’d said. His hands shook on the reins; whatever that was didn’t sound good. Ben felt as much as heard a quiet sob, and her arms contracted around him, suddenly, as though she were afraid he was going somewhere.  He hadn’t meant to upset her. How difficult must it have been, to pretend to be someone she wasn’t while Ben himself had tried to push them both away; and now, to be so ill, off on a trip like this with what was probably the world’s worst horseman?

 

He hadn’t meant to add to her troubles.  “I’m sorry. I won’t ask you again, until you’re well.  You don’t have to worry, Rey. I’m here.” He laid his hand over hers; she held onto it with both of her own small hands; Ben thought that was one of the best things he’d ever felt.  He kept talking as they rode, about small, safe things; how yew wood was used for bows, how flint for tinderboxes could be found near where they were riding, how he’d been told beechwood was used in the making of wheels.  He pointed out the blue butterflies that occasionally crossed their path, and the sound of a woodpecker at work. Gradually her arms relaxed, and her hands went back to tracing him, as if learning his shape.

 

It hadn’t occurred to Ben until a few hours into their journey that they didn’t have any food.  He was reminded of this when his stomach gave an audible rumble; this seemed to amuse Rey to no end, if the giggle was any indication.  She also splayed her hand across his belly as if seeking the source of the sound; and THAT almost sent them straight into a ditch, as thought, focus, and the ability to speak instantly deserted him and his knees clenched around the stallion’s body.  Exilium made a startled noise that was almost a bray and broke into something Ben thought must be a trot, which nearly unseated them both as his confusion gave way to fear.

 

He pulled back on the reins, more out of an instinct to hold on than any coherent plan, his ears full of the sounds of frightened horses and his stomach now churning with nausea.  Exilium slowed to a walk, then stopped, thank God. Right. That… had not been helpful. Hunger wasn’t going to help his concentration either. And Rey was coughing again; the jolting probably wasn’t good for her. They couldn’t go into a town or city, not that there were any around here; folk might ask questions they couldn’t afford to answer.  Ben hadn’t the faintest idea how to get food, outside; that was absurd; of all the things he’d read, and studied, and written, why hadn’t he managed to learn how to feed himself?

 

Wait.  Think. He took a look around them.  They were at the edge of a wood, with trees on one side and meadows and pasture on the other.  Those...hedges, over there, were hurdles, for sheepfolds. You used hazelwood for those, that and wattle-and-daub; another set of useless facts that wouldn’t help him here.  But if there were sheepfolds, there must be a farmhouse somewhere, or a shepherd’s cottage. _They’d_ know how to feed themselves.  And he had money; Rey had seen to that, looking after both of them when she could barely move.  It was his turn now. There was a copse of trees not far into the beginnings of the wood, here; beeches, he thought, growing in a sort of horseshoe shape, with a trickle of water running near them.  That would work.

 

Ben walked Exilium to the little grove of trees.  “Rey?” There was a hmm? sort of sound. “We need to stop for a little while.  All three of us could use a rest. Let go for a moment?” He was answered with a sigh as her hands separated and retreated from around his waist.   Swinging his leg around to dismount without either kicking Rey or clouting the stallion in the head was tricky, but he managed. And it meant that Ben could look at her again, which he found that he very much liked to do. He held both of her hands as she swung her leg over the broad back in turn and had to let go to catch her by the waist before she fell.

 

Exilium had been patient as they both dismounted, which probably wouldn’t last.  Ben held onto the halter as he led Rey over to the copse of beeches and settled her on the moss-covered roots; he tried to take as much care as though he were seating a queen on her throne.  The stallion went along willingly enough as he was tethered to one of the trees. There was some grass, and he could reach the water. “We don’t have any food. I should have thought of that.”  

 

She started to get up, to do what he didn’t know. “No, you stay here.  There’s a farmhouse somewhere around here; I’ll go and find us something to eat. I don’t…”, he gestured helplessly at their surroundings. “...I don’t want to leave you, but you should be safe here.  Anyone who tries to get near him,” he pointed a thumb at their mount, “will be lucky to escape with a nasty bite. There’s a little stream here, see? If you need water, while I’m gone. And I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.  You should rest.”

 

Rey nodded, and sank back against the trunk of one of the trees.  He crouched down to put the back of his hand against her head. It was really very warm.  “I’m sorry. I wish I was better at this.” She shook her head. He froze as she laid a finger across his lips with a _shhhhh_ , then arranged herself until she was comfortable, smiled at him, and closed her eyes.  As he walked toward the sheepfold, Ben found himself putting a hand to his mouth, as though he could still feel the warmth of her touch; there was an answering smile on his face.

 

His steps slowed as he realized he had no idea where he was going.  There was the sheepfold. Trees, grass, the long sweeps of the Downs, the woods behind him where he’d left Rey.  Ben could only hope the stallion would be a good enough guardian. He looked up as he heard the sound of a woodpecker again and caught sight of smoke in the distance ahead of him.  Wait. Unless the woods here were on fire (no, do NOT think about that, there’d be more smoke, wouldn’t there?), smoke meant there were people; people doing things like cooking, or making charcoal, or...something.  It wasn’t exactly knowledge he’d sought, how people used their fires.

 

Smoke close to where he was probably meant the farmhouse he was trying to find.  Bag over his shoulder, Ben started walking. That, at least, was something he could do; the long walks he was used to taking while he thought were standing him in good stead here.  He definitely had a lot to think about on this one. It was nice to be doing something...active, to help someone else, after he’d been powerless to help himself for so long. It had felt good to help Timothy; to talk to him about his mistake, and to do what he could when Timothy had been injured, which admittedly hadn’t been much.  Ben wondered if he’d ever have Finn’s courage; or Rey’s. Maybe someday, with their help, he would; for right now he’d take care of things as best he could.

 

A flock of sheep were grazing on a grassy slope to one side as he walked; Ben could see now that he was following a sort of footpath worn into the grass, coming from the sheepfold.  A small figure, crook in hand, darted in among the sheep as he passed. Good thinking; someone had probably told them not to speak to strangers. Ben wasn’t exactly looking forward to the idea himself.  He could see the farmhouse ahead now, a sort of small, cozy-looking wattle-and-daub structure with a thatched roof and a stone chimney, and it was definitely the source of the smoke he’d seen. He felt queasy at the idea of asking strangers for help.

 

There was a fence enclosing a small area in front of the house; Ben could see a neatly arranged patch of vegetables and a few flowers.  He wondered what this low fence was meant to keep out of the garden. There was a simple latch on the gate, so he lifted it and went inside, careful to keep his feet off the beds.  Fishing out the smaller bag of coins was the work of a few seconds, meaning he had no choice but to step up to the threshold and knock. There was a sound of voices inside, muffled by the walls and thatch, growing clearer as one of the voices approached the door.

 

"She wouldn't bother knocking, Mother," he heard as the door opened.  The first thing he saw was the knife. It was very large, and very well-honed, and in the hand of a woman who seemed as though she'd be capable of using it. In her other hand was a spindle, on which she'd evidently been winding thread when he'd interrupted her.  Eyes of a beechnut brown (wait, couldn’t you eat beechnuts?) cautiously examined him from behind the blade.

 

There was a *clink* as the small bag of coins he'd been holding hit the ground. Ben held his obviously empty hands carefully to each side. If she decided he was some sort of burglar and stuck him with that alarming piece of metalwork, who would take care of Rey?

 

"Who is it, then, Alys?"  This question came from an older woman who had walked across the room to stand behind what must be her daughter; she was holding what was probably the biggest pair of shears Ben had ever seen. Who *were* these women and why were they bristling with sharp objects?  His eyes darted from the shears, to the skein of thread, to the spinning wheel in a corner of the room, and Ben had to suppress a thread of nervous laughter.

Here were Lachesis and Atropos; it must be Clotho outside watching the sheep.

 

"I don't know, Mother; some sort of footloose Franciscan, I suppose. A mendicant?"  Her face, framed by glossy, walnut-brown hair pulled back in neat wings, softened a little at the thought; it was a kind face, and looked as though it might ordinarily be full of friendly enthusiasm.  She was wearing some kind of dress; it was green, Ben didn’t really know anything about women’s clothes. Her head was bare, which he thought might be unusual, but then she hadn’t been expecting anyone, had she?  “We can spare a little, but not much, I’m afraid”, she explained with an apologetic expression.

 

The older woman looked him over with discerning blue-green eyes.  Graying hair of a buff shade, lighter than her daughter’s, was gathered under a kerchief; her dress was a grayish blue.  "I believe he's a Benedictine, dear, which makes this a bit more surprising." She pointed the shears at the front of his robes, indicating his long scapular, then looked at the bag at his feet.  "You seem to have dropped something." The younger woman didn’t look away from his face. Ben felt as though he were being judged and weighed; just as if she really were measuring his thread. She seemed to come to a decision.

 

He was having some trouble formulating a thought.  “I...am. A Benedictine, I mean. I’m Brother Benedictus.  And...yes. Would it be all right if I picked up the bag?” He tried to keep his eyes on their faces, but couldn’t help letting them drift to the points of the shears, to the tip of the knife, and back again. He’d be likely to put out one of his eyes if he tried reaching for the bag just now.

 

Alys, as her mother had called her, followed his gaze to the knife as though she’d just remembered it was there. She lowered it to her side, though she kept a firm grip on the handle, and squinted at him where he still stood in the doorway.  “Oh. Black, not brown. Go ahead, yes. You’d probably better come inside and tell us why you’re here.” She dropped the spindle absently into another basket by the spinning wheel as she moved back into the interior of the cottage. Her mother moved back to the rocking chair next to the spinning wheel, drawing it close to the table before she sat.  She picked up her sewing, but kept a wary eye on him and left the shears in her hand. He had no trouble understanding the unspoken warning.

 

Ben stooped to retrieve the small bag of coins.  There was a resounding *crack* as he stood up again, straight into the low lintel of the cottage door; his eyes were tearing and he’d managed to bite his tongue.  A few constellations floated in front of his eyes as he raised a hand to the back of his head. “D-...ouch.” Right. Bending nearly double in an attempt to avoid duplicating the feat, he stepped into the cottage and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light, one hand still assessing the damage.

 

It was just as cozy on the inside.  There were sewing things everywhere; the spinning wheel, embroidery hoops, something that looked like a blanket, but was being stuffed?, wool that looked as though it had just come from the sheep, stuck onto a sort of comb, and more skeins of thread.  Something smelled delicious; there was a pot on the fire. A bed in one corner was covered with a blanket, and a cloth doll lay on top; that must belong to Clotho. Everywhere he looked, there was something in this place that spoke of home, and Ben found his eyes tearing for an entirely different reason.

 

Alys set the knife down on the table that stood in front of the hearth and moved back toward the door.  “Oh dear. Are you all right? We don’t get many visitors, and they’re usually...err, shorter.” She took hold of his arm.  “Come and sit down before you hurt yourself. Well; again.” She led him to a section of log that served as a stool. Ben folded himself onto the low seat and tried to keep his knees away from the table.  Alys seated herself opposite him and steepled her hands under her chin, asking “What brings a Benedictine monk to Old Wives Lees?”

 

“I…”   All the possible explanations tumbled through Ben’s mind.   _I’m being pursued by a demon and I need to rescue my angel so she and the warrior who came here all the way from Africa can help me.  I’m travelling across England to go back to where I...killed my father so I can get medicine for a woman who’s impersonating a monk._ He winced, and his mind shied away at that one; he dismissed it while he could still think, before the screams and the roaring started. _I stole my uncle’s horse and I’m riding west with a girl who up until this morning I thought was a Benedictine novice._ No, he had better not laugh at that or he might not be able to stop.   _I’m trying to keep my life’s work from maddening and killing anyone else._ NOT helpful.  He dropped his face into one hand.   _Say something._ His stomach was growling again.   

 

When he raised his head, two pairs of eyes were regarding him with something that looked like sympathy.  A glance passed between mother and daughter. The older woman, whose name Ben still didn’t know, got up and went to a set of shelves on the wall.  She took down a wooden bowl and went to the fireplace, where she ladled something into it. Alys got up to take a cup from the same shelves and filled it from a crockery jug.  They both came back to the table and set the bowl and cup and a spoon in front of him.

 

It was the mother who spoke this time.  “Let’s start with something simpler. I’m Heleyne.  This is Alys. I doubt very much you knocked on our door just for the pleasure of our company, and I’ve no idea what you’re doing out of your monastery.  But that seems to be a difficult question at the moment. So...what do you need?” Now they’d both steepled their hands under their chins and were giving him identical inquiring looks.  Ben didn’t know whether to laugh or weep; he was touched by their kindness and afraid of their questions. Probably neither was a good idea.

 

He took a deep breath.  “Food. I need food...for travelling, for two people, and something to carry water.  Please. I’m sorry to intrude like this. I wouldn’t, except I need to...it’s important, and I had nowhere else to go.  I can pay you, even for, um, this,” he waved a hand at the bowl and cup, “thank you. I do have money; that I have, just...nothing else.”

 

Alys was shaking her head at him.  “For supplies, you can pay us. This is hospitality, and you’re welcome to it.  Go on, eat.” She smiled at him. Ben bent his head obediently over the bowl. Heleyne and Alys busied themselves while he ate, presumably with the tasks he’d interrupted.  If either of them noticed the few extra drops of salt that were added to the pottage, they didn’t say. He ate faster than the good food deserved; he had somewhere to be.

 

…

 

Alys did not care for winding skeins of thread.  It wasn’t her favorite part of turning sheep’s wool into cloth.  Shearing wasn’t bad, the hardest part was convincing the sheep to stay still while you did it.  Dyeing was hot, weary work, but the results were beautiful. Carding was very satisfying; you had to be a little savage, on occasion, to get the twigs and dirt and various other unpleasant substances out of the wool.  Even spinning had a certain rhythm to it that was pleasant, in the evening by the fire. But winding skeins was finicky and took patience. She’d been just as glad to be interrupted.

 

A stranger at the door could mean anything, though, so it was best to be prepared.  She’d grabbed the butcher knife and said a quick prayer of thanks that her daughter was still off watching their sheep.  She hadn’t supposed bandits would knock, not that there was much to interest bandits in the Downs at any rate, but you never knew.  What she had _not_ been expecting was a man in a monk’s robes who seemed to fill the entire doorway,  from top to bottom and side to side, all at once, and who seemed to be terrified of _her_.  Oh.  The knife.

 

His hands were empty, and he’d asked politely enough to pick up the bag he’d dropped.  After that, she’d just been mystified at the presence in her cottage of a monk who, frankly, didn’t seem as though he’d spent much time out of the cloister; not to mention a little concerned once he’d brained himself on the lintel.  While she was thinking about why, Mother had gone ahead and asked him; she was direct as always, and THAT had produced some remarkable results. He hadn’t said anything, really, at all; but his face had gone through pained? haunted? Amused? as he stared at her, and settled on what she thought might be both frightened and determined before he dropped his head into his hands.  That was a lot for a face to say.

 

Brother Benedictus was no threat to them; in fact, he seemed as though some breakfast and a little help would do him a world of good.  He’d said two, he needed food for two; Alys was burning with curiosity. Why wouldn’t he just find the nearest monastery or cathedral? She’d always thought that must be one of the nice things about being a monk or a nun; there would be someone to look after you wherever you went, because you belonged to the Church.  Canterbury itself was only an hour or two east. He kept looking over his shoulder, though, even while he was eating; as though he were afraid someone was chasing him, or…

 

“Do you need to get back to someone?”  She’d meant to let him eat in peace while she found some bread, thank goodness she’d baked a little extra, but the question was out before she’d finished thinking it.  He flinched, dropping the spoon into the bowl and splattering pottage on the table; he seemed to have inhaled the last spoonful, if one went by the coughing. Alys looked over to the other side of the room to see that her mother was busily gathering things together; good.  She slid the cup of ale over and waited for him to take a drink.

 

When he’d finished coughing, he nodded.  “I do. She…” This expression was easy to read; pure dismay, as he covered his mouth with his hand, eyes round.  His eyes darted from her to Mother, as though expecting judgment. He wouldn’t find any here. Heleyne had been meant for the church, once, before she’d met Father; it was all over after that.  Alys supposed he must have fallen in love, this Brother Benedictus; but that wasn’t a crime. It might be tricky explaining it to the Church, though; no wonder he’d stopped here, halfway to nowhere.

 

Mother smiled at him while she handed him a waterskin, a bowl, a spoon, and a bark container of pottage that would last until he got back to whoever _she_ might be. She did love a mystery solved, and the softness in her eyes told Alys she, too, was thinking about her own story.   “You’d better be getting on with it, then, hadn’t you? A shame you didn’t bring her with you; but then you wouldn’t have thought you could.”  Her eyes brightened. “A moment.” That was interesting. Alys went back to considering what to give him; they’d need food that would keep. She could spare enough bread and cheese, and maybe some carrots, to last two people for a few days, if they were sparing with it.

 

Alys was astonished to see her mother come back with one of her quilts; she generally only gave those away for a wedding, or a birth.  Trapunto wasn’t a style of needlework seen much outside Naples, where Heleyne’s own mother had learned it, and it took time to plan a design and stuff the chosen sections to create that raised effect.  Alys remembered this one; it had been completed a long time ago, but her mother had said she’d never found the right person for it, so she’d kept it in their blanket chest. The patterns of embroidery for this quilt gave the suggestion of feathers, so that if you held up the piece and gazed at it from a distance, you could pick out the shape of a pair of great wings.  She’d dyed it blue.

 

She held the quilt out to Brother Benedictus.  “It’s still cold, of a night, even in summer. I don’t imagine you brought much of anything with you, did you?”  He shook his head, looking stunned. So was Alys, for that matter. “Take it. I can make another easily enough.”  Mother’s voice was gruff. “Something watching over you while you watch over each other.” There was a _harrumph_ as she cleared her throat.  “You’d best be going. She’ll be waiting.”  

 

Heleyne gave him one last, now slightly watery, smile.  “That’s a good feeling, to see someone when you’ve been waiting for each other.  You see a chance at happiness, you take it. God will understand. We don’t always see the plan until it’s under our noses, but it comes round right.”  She patted his hand where the quilt lay on both their arms, then gazed around the cottage with satisfaction. “You’ll see.” Alys had found a basket and packed the things up in it.   She felt a little watery too, just like he looked now.

 

“I...thank you, both.  I wasn’t...this is...Thank you.  Heleyne. Alys. I’ve…” He glanced at the door.  “She’s…”.

 

Alys nodded and handed him the basket.  He really did look anxious. She hoped whatever was happening turned out well.  “We know. Go. You’re welcome.” It wasn’t until he’d turned a look of wordless gratitude on them both and ducked his way out of the door that she remembered she’d forgotten to take any coin.  Silly goose. When she picked up the bowl he’d used to scour it, though, there were coins underneath. Oh my. That was a good deal more than was merited for such a small thing. She grinned and handed a few to Mother.  “You can start a new quilt.” Alys tucked the rest into the pocket hanging from her belt, happily anticipating the nice things they might bring, and the way her daughter’s eyes would shine.

 

…

 

The sheep were gone from the slope when Ben passed that way again.  He turned to look back at the cottage and saw that same small person just opening the gate, having adroitly avoided passing him on the way home.  Clotho. Someone else who was better at listening than he was. There would be a hot meal and a warm welcome waiting, he had no doubt. A home like that, full of small comforts and the willingness to look after strangers as well as your own folk; that was a very fine thing.  There was a comfortable little cottage where he was going, too. He wondered what she’d think, after all these years. Home was a thorny word, for him. Was it somewhere you didn’t feel alone? Where someone was waiting for you? Someone was waiting for him. He sped up his pace.

 

Rey was right where he’d left her.  In fact, it didn’t look as though she’d moved since he’d gone.  Was that bad? Exilium was cropping the grass; he snorted as Ben stepped on a few twigs on his way back into the wood.  Rey’s eyes opened, all the colors of the trees surrounding her, and she smiled at him; suddenly he was filled with warmth.  Heleyne was right. That was a good feeling, that she was glad to see him, a _home_ feeling.  She said his name, first; “Ben”.  Her voice was low, when she spoke, but it sounded...happy.

 

“And he shall see the Angel's eyes, and know

As he was known in turn, and long before.

The Poet, by the Warrior unmask'd

shall find his savior Guardians have come.”

 

Ben hurried over to sit beside her and smiled into those eyes.  How could he not have known her? “Yes. I know you both, now. I knew him; Finn, I recognized him, finally, before we left. You…were a little bit more of a surprise. I wish he could have come with us; he’s well enough, though, off with Abbot Luke.  So you don’t have to worry. I don’t understand any of this yet; but that can wait.” He handed her the pottage, still warm, and the spoon. “Here, eat this. I’ll get some water.” He could hear her coughing as he bent to fill the waterskin at the trickle of stream, but when he turned back she was eating, slowly, but with every evidence of enjoyment.  

 

Ben sat down next to her again.  She was shivering, a little, as she ate.  He took the quilt out of the basket and the bowl from Rey’s hands, shook out the quilt, and laid it over her.  She ran a gentle hand over the shapes, lips parted, marveling. He grinned. “I know. Let me tell you about the women I met just now.  It started with a knife.” He handed the bowl back to her. They needed to get going again, but a little more time to rest while she ate wouldn’t hurt.  He told her all about the benevolent Fates and their snug little house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small things loom large, when you're out of your element and afraid. Fortunately for Brother Ben, when things seem overwhelming, help, hope, and kindness find him along the way.


	21. Remedium, Repertum, et Reprehensio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remedy, Discovery, and Challenge. In which we turn back to our Timothy. In which the bond between our three has grown stronger with the knowing. In which the rest of the Abbey, including our Brother Lorcan, discovers that they've missed a few things. In which Brother Finn is very, very angry. In which there is an apology, but not necessarily for the right things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, as you may have surmised, a story that takes its time. There's a lot happening, and most of it at once, so some sprawl and slowing to take things in as they happen was inevitable, and hopefully pardonable.

Yarrow, for the scratches and cuts; hollyhock roots for that, too, and the flowers for pain, would work.  A wash of egg whites with vinegar and clove would help keep the cuts clean. They’d have to be day before yesterday’s eggs, though; what had been distracting that girl?  Skullcap, for the inevitable headache, and there was still some Saint John’s wort for bruises; he’d need to watch that, it had other effects that might not be necessary. Over the sound of the mortar and pestle came a soft, pained groan.  The boy’s brown eyes, almost as dark as their pupils, darted around the room and settled on his own arm.. “Oh, no…”

 

Lorcan suppressed a smile.  “Oh, yes. I’m not certain how you expected that to go, but you’ve broken your arm.”  He indulged himself in a small sigh. “Again. It’s nice to see you awake, however.” He guessed it wouldn’t be all that long, not the way the boy was struggling to focus.

 

Timothy raised his other hand to the back of his head.  “Why does…?”

 

“Your head hurt?  Because you fell off the back of a horse, son; a horse you had no business getting onto in the first place.  You were lucky; but then,  **_bíonn grásta Dé idir an diallait agus an talamh_ ** _. _ ”  He answered the puzzled frown.  “The grace of God is found between the saddle and the ground.”

 

The boy shook his head, then winced at the motion.  “There wasn’t a saddle. If there had been, I’d’ve had an easier time holding on when he jumped.”  The literal mind of youth; God give him strength.

 

The second sigh was louder.   “Timothy, I don’t think a saddle would have made much difference; you should never have been on that beast to begin with, as wild as he is.  Never mind. Let’s have a look at you.” The examination was unavoidably painful, and they were both glad to be finished by the time the necessary remedies had been administered.  Pain was, well, painful; but it was also a useful gauge of damage as well as a reminder not to go doing that again. Lorcan did not fail to notice Timothy’s frequent glances at the door, as though he were expecting someone.

 

“If it’s Benedictus you’re looking for, he’s not overly fond of this place; and I’d expect him to be still asleep after yesterday’s trouble.  But he will want to know how you fare, so I’ll be sure he gets word.” A look slanted in Timothy’s direction confirmed that he’d hit the target.

 

The boy shook his head, gingerly this time, mouth twisting with emotion.  “He’s got more important things to think about than me. Since they got here.  I thought we were friends, maybe...” He looked down at his lap.

 

Lorcan managed to keep the sigh on the inside this time.  “Nonsense. Who do you think carried you here before he helped to set that arm?  To a place, I’ll add,” he gestured to the room as a whole, “that he has not voluntarily visited since he came here a dozen years ago.  I can easily count the times he’s been in this room on the fingers of one hand; for one of which he had to be carried, and the most recent of which was just now, on your behalf.”  He’d never been able to figure out why that was, or to get poor Ben to trust him; maybe he needed to do better by this boy and Ben both, as much as Luke did.

 

Timothy blinked at him.  “He did? But he came to the stables, and he didn’t SAY anything, and he was just watching Brother Finn, and…”  His voice quavered, and he gave up on the sentence.

 

They’d need a whole host of guardian angels for this one.  “And that’s when you decided the best course of action was to fling yourself onto an unbroken stallion?  That was a damn fool thing to do.” That earned him a startled and slightly scandalized look. Oops. Just a child, remember.  Hadn’t he just been talking with Luke about the trouble a boy got into at that age? And he would know. Lorcan had been a damn fool himself.   **_Aithníonn ciaróg ciaróg eile_ ** **;** one beetle recognizes another.  He certainly hoped Timothy came to understanding faster and more easily than he had.  

 

The memories swam through his mind; time spent on the street when he should have been at his books, the girls, all willing but unwise, the fights.  And it had come to a knife in his hand and a man on the ground. A bad man, to be sure; Lorcan had seen enough bruises on the lass to know it wasn’t the first time the bastard had been at her.  But he’d been a man still, a life unique among all those on God’s earth, and not one that he’d had any right to end before its time. He’d been given a choice that wasn’t one, really; the Road or the rope.  But...those mistakes had led him where he needed to go; to a calling, he hoped a modicum of wisdom...and to her, his Lark, the beautiful gift at the end of his feckless rambling, that he’d treasured for all the time they had.

 

“Brother Lorcan?  I’m sorry. Will...will my arm still…?”  Timothy was sitting up in bed, which would have taken a good deal of effort; and he’d turned a sort of green-and-oatmeal color.  Lorcan hastened to support him. There was a tear trembling on the end of the boy’s nose; just a boy, yes, and just now in seven different kinds of pain while Lorcan’s mind was wandering.  He could do better than this. She’d’ve expected better; she’d always been calm and tolerant, listening while he wondered whether he would ever be healed.

 

He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “No, Timothy, it’s I who should be sorry, woolgathering while we’re talking.  I believe your arm will be sound again, but we’ll keep a careful eye on it until the bones have knitted.  But think, boy! There was no need for Benedictus to come to the stables if all he wanted was to see Brother Finn; they work together every blessed day of the week.  It was Brother Finn, incidentally, who plucked you out from under the hooves of that beast, and got his own arm sliced open for his trouble. No, don’t look like that, he’s all right.  And as for saying nothing; you saw him, Ben, when he was brought here. What was he like, then?” Follow along, boy.

 

Timothy frowned, considering.  “He was...strange; afraid. He couldn’t speak, really, at first.  Because of the fire, and the first one, his fire, and he thought it was the stables, but why?  Because…oh.” There it was, a light dawning.

 

God’s teeth.  Patching up bodies was easy; this was the weary work.  “Trust doesn’t come easily to our Benedictus; but if you know that much, then he’s trusted you with more of the story than he’s given to anyone else, so far as I know.   People aren’t always themselves, when they’re frightened; but he brought you here, nonetheless, and it’s fair worried he was about you.  **_Má tá tú ag lorg cara gan locht, béidh tú gan cara go deo._ ** __ If you’re looking for a friend without a fault, you’ll be without a friend forever.”  Lorcan fixed the boy with what he hoped was a flinty stare. 

 

“You, however, will need to learn to think before you act, rather than during or after.   That’s a fault with a steep price. Doing before thinking will lead you to wisdom, eventually, if you don’t go and get yourself killed first; but it’ll be a long and a thankless journey to get there.  You can take my word for it; mine ended with falling down the side of a mountain on the other end of the world, and it was a  _ very  _ long way and the help of a patient friend before I found home again.”

 

The boy was goggling at him; he supposed it  _ was  _ a strange, small piece of a very odd story, and Timothy’s eyes were beginning to wander.  “Never you mind. You just be the kind of friend you’d like to have, and you’ll find friends and help will come to you when you need them.”  That was true, Lorcan knew, down to the marrow of his bones. He eased Timothy back down onto the cot. “Back to sleep with you, now.” Time to see whether Ben was awake and ease his mind.

 

…

 

They’d stopped to eat, a few hours out from the Abbey; just bread and cheese, and a waterskin passed between them.  Finn still didn’t understand what was so urgent about this trip; and from his perplexed looks at Abbot Luke, neither did Daniel. While they rested a little (it didn’t seem like the trip was doing Luke’s back any good, though at his age that wasn’t surprising), Finn took out some parchment and sketched; maybe if he could relax, even a little, he could trust himself to  _ ask  _ why they were on this spectacularly ill-timed expedition.  And he needed practice, too; it might just have been a pretext to enter the Abbey, but Finn found he really did want Ben to be proud of his progress.

 

He let his thoughts drift, sketching whatever came to mind.  Finn was still half-asleep as it was, and the images made no sense.  He found a skein of thread, a pair of shears, and a spinning wheel appeared on the page; odd, that.  A horse, no, Exilium, specifically; hardly shocking that particular stallion was on his mind. A pair of wings curved their way onto the parchment.  Yes. Ben had found their angel, too. Finn was glad; that meant he wouldn’t be alone. He found himself nearly dozing off again; but a sudden sharp pain at the back of his head put paid to that.  What? There was nothing; well, recent events were enough to give anyone a headache. As he moved to put the parchment and stylus back in his bag, Finn found he’d drawn a door. Maybe he should wait until he was completely awake and try again.

 

...

 

A stop by the refectory was in order; Lorcan couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, somewhere between Callum, who was now keeping an eye on Timothy, and Timothy himself, and then Luke, and Timothy again?  Or had he forgotten? His stomach seemed to think forgotten was the correct answer. He could hear Brother Radbod carrying on a one-sided conversation; he must be talking to Brother Caius. That was exactly the person Lorcan himself needed to see; he heard Radbod say “Well, nobody sarding KNOWS, Caius, so what can we do?”  as he headed back to the kitchen. What was that about?

 

“Apologies for the interruption, Brother Radbod.  Brother Caius, I’m hoping you’ve got a crust to spare; I seem to have missed breakfast...and the evening meal yesterday, and I’m not entirely certain what else.  I need to speak with Brother Benedictus, so something I can carry with me would be good, if you’ve got it. Maybe for him, too.” He hoped his expression was apologetic, but Caius was usually understanding when Lorcan had been busy with a patient.

 

Radbod and Caius exchanged glances full of some significance.  “He doesn’t know yet, does he?” Caius shook his head and gestured at Radbod.  “Well, of course I will.” Radbod turned a serious look back to Lorcan. “Brother Benedictus is missing, along with the Abbot’s stallion.”

 

The floor seemed to shift a little under Lorcan’s feet.  Perhaps he should spend a bit more time tending to his own health; he must have misheard.  “I beg your pardon? Did you say Benedictus is  _ missing _ ?  He hasn’t left this place in twelve years!  And the Abbot’s stallion;  _ Exilium _ , the same bloody-minded creature that threw one of our novices and wounded one of our brothers?  That can’t be right. Ben wouldn’t go anywhere near that beast.” He sat down, rather suddenly, on Caius’ kitchen stool.  What in the world was  _ happening  _ to this place?  

 

Caius patted Lorcan on the shoulder and handed him a cup and...something, a bread roll, maybe?  Lorcan ate it without even registering what it might be; the body needed fuel, regardless of the state of the mind inside it, while he thought about what might have driven Ben to do such a thing.  Damnation. He should have gone to tell the boy sooner that all was well, with Timothy and Brother Finn. But he’d been busy, and tired...that was no excuse. Why hadn’t Benedictus come looking for answers; why would he leave the Abbey? And...“Well, who’s gone looking for him?”  Radbod and Caius exchanged glances again. 

 

Caius shrugged, but his eyes were troubled as Radbod explained.  “What would you have us do, Lorcan? We’ve no idea where he’s gone.  Anyone who could be spared to look has already left with the abbot, I think; and Brothers Paul and Patrick said our mandate, while Abbot Luke is gone, is to keep things running as normally as possible until he returns.  Which direction would we look? Who would we send? We’re not any happier about it than you are. Dismus is frantic; but Benedictus is a grown man who’s chosen to leave. Even if we could find him, what would we do? Clap him in irons and haul him back here?”  

 

Radbod was practically wringing his hands, as though willing Lorcan to understand.  And he did, he supposed. Everything Radbod had said made perfect sense; unless you’d seen him, Ben, these last few weeks.  Unless you’d seen him carried into the infirmarium, or seen him scramble backwards out of the room at the sight of Timothy’s pain, or knew the kind of night he’d had only to find, himself, in the morning, that someone was missing.   **_Amadan_ ** , he cursed himself.   _ Fool. _ _ You should have gone to tell him, you should have insisted on waking him _ .

 

It was only in extremis that Lorcan could imagine Ben haring off on the back of that animal.  Lorcan couldn’t go after him, himself; even assuming he could work out where Ben was going, he had responsibilities here.  So did they all, he supposed. The best he could do would be to wait, and think, until Luke and, perhaps more importantly, Brother Finn, came back; and wonder again where’d he failed, that Benedictus didn’t trust enough to come to him.

 

Radbod was talking again.  “We missed Brother Reymund at breakfast; is he feeling any better?”  Lorcan thought he must be going mad. This was the second time in a few minutes that Radbod’s perfectly good Latin had failed to make any sense to him. 

 

“Brother...Reymund?  I’ve no idea. Was...he ill?”   **_Dia ár sábháil_ ** .   He’d almost slipped and said “she”.  Too many shocks at once. What now?

 

Radbod and Caius were looking at each other AGAIN; that alone was going to drive him mad, assuming that hadn’t already been accomplished.  “He was; a nasty-sounding cough. We told him to go and see you, so we thought that’s where he must be. He wasn’t at the evening meal, either.  You haven’t seen him?” Caius was motioning at Radbod, rapid-fire; he was agitated, now, which was unusual for him. “I know, Caius, I’m trying to find out what’s happening!  I KNOW he wasn’t well, didn’t I just say so? How can I get any answers if you won’t stop interrupting me?” This was all increasingly bizarre; Lorcan fought the urge to laugh, which would be entirely inappropriate.   “Reymund” would have gone to great lengths to avoid coming to see him, but there was no way to tell them why THAT was.

 

This would be a delicate piece of navigation.  “No, I haven’t seen Brother Reymund. But the young are disinclined to take the advice of their elders, aren’t they?  Perhaps he thought sleep was the best remedy. I’ll go and check in on him, shall I, before I get back to Timothy?” They both nodded, relieved.  Well, that ought to buy him some time; to do what, Lorcan had no idea. Oh,  **_cac_ ** .  But Reymund ill, and Benedictus gone on horseback?  Lorcan had a sinking feeling he knew what he was going to find, at the guesthouse, and it would be very hard to explain.

 

…

 

They’d been riding all day.  Rey hadn’t complained; of course, Ben wasn’t entirely certain whether she  _ could  _ complain, this fever having evidently had some very strange effects.  But her arms had stayed secure around his middle, for the most part, other than their occasional peregrinations around the rest of him. He wasn’t complaining about those, though he supposed he should be. Instead, he just continued redirecting her hands, gently, if they threatened his fragile self-control.  Sometimes she reached to touch him when it started to be too much; when his thoughts ran in circles, when the stallion shied at some noise or a flutter of leaves or, who knew, at Ben’s own fraying nerves. How did she know? The cough wasn’t getting any better; not that he’d thought it would, just with time.  Whenever he felt her hold on him loosening, he stopped and took a break; it was as good a gauge as any of when to let her rest, and Exilium too. A bit of food and water for all of them, and back on the way again. 

 

Ben stopped when the discomfort of an extended trip on horseback began to make itself known.  They needed to get where they were going, but it certainly wasn’t going to be today. The stallion was beginning to stumble a bit, and Rey was beginning to falter, he thought; he’d felt shivering against his shoulder.  It was incredible, what she’d done already; he imagined she’d needed that strength on the long road to find him. He still couldn’t believe it; that they’d both traveled so far, for him. He slid down off Exilium’s back; at least he’d mastered something.  _ Ow.   _ He hadn’t expected that to hurt quite so much; and his legs seemed to be made of something considerably less sturdy than muscle and bone, more like custard.

 

He looked up to Rey.  Oh hell. Her eyes were closed, and she was nearly transparent, as though she were made of glass.  How was Ben meant to know, whether it was better to go quickly so Rey could get help, or slowly so as not to make her worse?  For now, he reached to lift her down from the stallion’s back; she was beginning to pitch forward without him in front of her.  Instead of sliding down onto her feet, she wound her arms around his neck and rested her face on his shoulder, feet still dangling a few inches away from the ground.  OH. That...that was...but he had to tether Exilium, and find somewhere for them to sleep. Them. To sleep. Oh. First things first. Ben looked around. 

 

They were in a wood again, though there looked to be a clear area just up the nearby slope.  Trees, yes, he knew which kinds, how terribly useful. Behind them was a sizeable oak; the ground beneath it was even between the thick roots.  “Rey?” There was only a sort of mumbled sigh. He leaned and lowered her onto the ground under the oak tree, as lightly as he could; and promptly tripped on one of the roots, ending up on his hands and knees, back arched like a cat as he narrowly avoided falling on her.  Well done.

 

The ground was hard, as he’d just discovered.  Ben tethered their mount to one of the roots; there wasn’t much grass here; he should pull some.  Water. They’d need something for bedding, a thought that turned his face hot. He wandered around the vicinity a bit; there was a big patch of ferns; bracken, he thought, that would do.  There were small streams around, that was good; Ben filled their waterskin as he walked. Were those…? They were. A runner of wild strawberries, one of the few foods he could recognize well enough not to mistake it for anything else, straggled through the undergrowth here.  Those went into his sleeve, tied carefully into a sort of pocket, and he grinned at the thought of giving them to Rey for her breakfast tomorrow.

 

When he reached the top of the slope, there was plenty of grass, but Ben didn’t see it for what seemed like a very long time.  Some distance across the clear, grassy area, past a crossroads, was a gallows. Some trick of the late-evening light, or maybe just his eyesight, made it seem to draw closer as he looked at it; as though it were looming just next to him instead of at the edge of his vision, across the grass and the road.  

 

This was...Ben knew where he was now.  This was Penenden Heath. Where they...he felt the trunk of a tree, rough behind him where he’d backed into it.  Birch, part of his mind absently noted. The rest of it was gibbering, unable to stop looking at the towering wooden object.  Everything else seemed as though he were seeing it behind smoked glass. There was laughter in his ears, and a sound like surf, and the summer evening was no longer warm.

 

Ben had been staring across at the ominous structure, who knew how long, when he felt a tickle along his knuckles.  It was enough to let him look away and down at his hand, startling the blue butterfly that had settled on it. How still must he have been, that a butterfly thought him part of the landscape; and for how long?  The light hadn’t changed, not really. He couldn’t have been lost but for so many minutes. And she was waiting. He could do this; even here, he  _ could _ .  

 

He wrenched his gaze downwards and gathered armfuls of grass until he thought he had enough, then turned to go back down the slope, to Rey.  He could  _ feel  _ the gallows behind him, as though it were looking at him.  Enough. Ben didn’t have the luxury of horror; someone was depending on him.  Bracken joined the grass in his arms as he passed it, and the woods seemed to grow a little warmer with each step back, until he saw her there under the oak tree, and it was summer again.

 

…

 

Finn was used to horses, from the caravans; but he’d spent a long time walking between there and England.  He was faintly embarrassed at the quiver in his limbs as he dismounted, until he saw that Abbot Luke and even Daniel were in much the same state, despite the breaks they’d taken for food and rest for themselves and the mares.  They’d reached Rochester, where Finn had been informed they’d be staying in the Priory of Saint Andrew, and were walking the horses along the road. He doubted very much the abbot of Saint Augustine’s would be housed with the rest of them, so now was the time to ask.  “Abbot Luke?” The man in question stopped rubbing his back to turn and look at Finn.

 

“Yes, Brother Finn? You’ve been quiet.  I was wondering when you’d find your tongue.”  He had no idea. Quiet had been better than the alternative.  But Finn had gone from tired enough to think some extremely injudicious thoughts, to much too tired to be angry, at least for now.

 

“Why are we doing this?”  He shook his head. “I don’t mean, not that, we’re buying more horses for the abbey, I understand that; but why now, and why so urgently that we left in the middle of the night?”  He hoped that sounded polite, or at least neutral; the abbot’s timing had been unfortunate, to say the least. At his left, Daniel looked just as curious about the answer.

 

Abbot Luke sighed.  He looked...old, suddenly, in a way he hadn’t at Saint Augustine’s, in the surroundings that suited him.  “I’m sure you can work out why the subject of horses was brought suddenly to my attention. I’d been considering the trip for some time, but it became apparent that the abbey needs some...more docile mounts in our stables, and some that are better suited to our younger novices.”  He had the grace to look embarrassed. “It never occurred to me that any of the boys would need more than one warning about Exilium; he obeys me well enough, and they were supposed to know better than to try him. I’m not sure Timothy would have tried it, either, except that…” He was back to grim.  “Never mind.”

 

Finn didn’t need the reminder; he’d heard what the boy had said just like everyone else who’d been there.  Just as Ben had; already trapped and paralyzed with fear, from everything Finn could see, he STILL didn’t understand why, and he’d heard Timothy call his name before he’d made that stupendously foolish leap.  No wonder he’d been drowning in nightmare; but he’d stepped forward to carry the boy to Lorcan, and Finn had seen the strain of it. He had no idea how Timothy was faring, for that matter. It seemed he had the energy to be angry after all.  And Luke was going on as though this thoughts were the only ones that mattered.

 

“Once I hit upon a solution, it seemed best to begin at once.  So the horses would be back at the Abbey, and being gentled and trained, by the time…”

 

“Could it not have waited a day?!  Daniel and I spent half the night settling the horses, all of them, and treating the wounds inflicted on poor Atlas.”  Daniel was watching this uneasily, as though he’d rather not have been brought into this conversation. Finn felt as though he’d been waiting years to begin it; he’d dropped the mare’s halter and found his hands raised in fists as he spoke, the muscles in his arms tight.  He took an almost involuntary step forward.

 

“Wounds caused by YOUR stallion; I mean no disrespect,” that was a lie, he meant all the disrespect possible at that exact moment, “but if your beast obeys only you, he is not obedient, he is merely YOURS. That stallion is unbroken and untrained, and far too dangerous to be kept in a place that houses CHILDREN.  That child could have been KILLED, Abbot Luke; a fact that would not have been changed by blaming it on his own poor judgment. It is  _ your  _ judgment on which the abbey depends.”  Daniel’s hand was on his arm. Finn wasn’t happy with him, either; it was his job to know that Exilium was untrained enough to be a hazard.

 

“Brother Finn…”

 

He shook off the hand.  “Not now.” The abbot’s face was livid.  “And we’ve, you’ve left the abbey with all of this still unsettled…”  his voice was thick, suddenly, as though he were trying to talk with a mouthful of pitch, “...I don’t even know if Timothy’s all right!  And B-”

 

The hand settled back on his arm, pulling up his sleeve; what was he doing?  “Brother Finn!” Daniel had raised his voice. That was unusual enough to get Finn’s attention; Daniel was usually soft-spoken unless he needed to be heard over the sounds of horses or across the stableyard.  “You’re bleeding.” All three of them looked at Finn’s arm, where Brother Lorcan’s careful bandaging had come loose and a trickle of red had made its way down almost to his hand. A series of unfathomable expressions chased each other as they passed over Abbot Luke’s bearded visage; his face was just as changeable as Ben’s, Finn thought, even though it was harder to read.  He thought the last one looked like regret.

 

The abbot’s posture was stiff, as was his tone.  “I am aware of my sins, Brother Finn, past and present.  I am also aware that it is not your place to point them out to me.  We will discuss the appropriate respect that should be used, in your tone and elsewhere, when addressing your superior in the Faith.  As for Exilium, I agree with you, and I wish,” he directed a pointed stare at Daniel, who seemed to shrink where he stood at Finn’s shoulder, “that someone had made me aware of the issue sooner; if somewhat more politely than you just have.  That’s why I plan to have you train him, when we return.” That was news to Finn, and a little startling, that the abbot thought highly enough of his skills to set him to that task.

 

Abbot Luke stared at the handiwork of his stallion, there on Finn’s arm; was that contrition? It was; he looked...guilty.  “My own night was late as well; I spent it in the infirmary, where Brother Lorcan tells me that he expects young Timothy to recover well.  A broken arm and a bump on the head, nothing that won’t mend. I thought it best to start sooner rather than later, the better to begin improving things.  And I don’t, couldn’t…” Whatever that thought was, he evidently thought better of sharing it. “I should have considered Daniel and yourself; for that, and for your injury,” he waved at the bandage on Finn’s arm, “I am sorry.”   He meant it; that was plain.

 

The abbot drew himself up, the weight of authority settling back onto him like a heavy cloak; a defense and sign of rank, perhaps, but just now Finn thought it looked wearying.  “Our haste does have one advantage; I can promise you a hot meal and a decent bed. We’ll have the infirmarian of Saint Andrew’s look at your arm, and I think we can start somewhat later tomorrow, with breakfast to send us on our way.”  

 

He was suddenly formidable again; Finn felt as though a passing raptor had just pinned him with its sharp eyes.  “I will put your outburst down to youth and fatigue, Brother Finn, but do not mistake; I will not tolerate insolence at the Abbey of Saint Augustine.  Moderate yourself, or you may find you are beginning an equally long journey home.” Finn shivered, as though that same raptor’s shadow had passed between him and the sun.  That was not an option, for many reasons, none of which he could say. And this man was the only way, for now, that he could find out more about Ben; his history, and his pain.  He would need all his patience, to keep moving forward; but when it came to the way Ben had been treated, patience was getting harder to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben has chosen a very unfortunate spot to camp for the night. Penenden Heath was used for executions for centuries, including this one, until the 1800s, and its Gallows Hill was occupied by the instrument of the same name for nearly all that time. The Abbey of Saint Augustine is floundering a bit without its leader; Abbot Luke has his flaws, and they are many, but he does keep the place in order. And poor Finn is currently trapped on a road trip with a chip on his shoulder...and with his boss.


	22. Noctis et Nimbus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis et Nimbus: Night and Cloud
> 
> In which our Brother Ben's unfortunate choice of camping spot is now apparent; in which forces may be angry that Ben has recognized his help. In which the increasing strength of our bond is painful for one who stands apart. In which we learn what Rey fears, and Ben learns that he has more to offer than he might have supposed. In which our Brother Lorcan learns that he still hates an unsolved puzzle and an enforced wait; so, as it happens, does Brother Finn. And finally, in which it is important to notice when now is sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rey is about to get her first introduction to our dark general. But as we know, Rey sees things that are seemingly beyond repair or hope of rescue a little differently than the rest of us. Finn is learning that it's harder to be a stranger in a strange land, alone, when you've had the experience of being known for comparison. And Ben is learning that the giving of seemingly small things makes burdens lighter.

 

Rey was shivering.  The summer evening wasn’t really cold, not even as the sun began to set.  That hadn’t been real, the cold, the dark; that had been his mind playing tricks on him...hadn’t it?  But it was getting cooler, and she was shivering in her sleep. Ben laid the armfuls of grass in front of Exilium, who got right down to eating them; that was good, wasn’t it?  He was careful to separate out the bracken; they’d be using it as a cushion from the ground, and he wasn’t sure if horses were supposed to eat that.

 

He rescued the strawberries from his sleeve and wrapped them in a few oak leaves to save for morning.  The bracken he spread on the ground between two of the oak tree’s other large roots. Oh. Um. How did you…?  Ben knelt and put his hands under Rey’s arms, wondering what to do next; her eyes were still closed, but her arms rose and her hands linked themselves behind his neck again.  He could admit, here out in the woods with her still mostly asleep and nobody but Exilium to notice, that he liked that; her trust that he would care for her, that he would never let her fall, and the way her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder.

 

Heleyne had said God would understand.  Ben sincerely hoped so, because what he  _ wanted  _ right now was just to lean back against the oak and hold her there, forever; but instead he carried her to the makeshift bed of bracken ferns and lowered her onto them as easily as he could.  Rey made a small, disappointed-sounding noise, still asleep, her hands reluctantly separating as he got back to his feet. He shook out the quilt, smiling again at the kindness behind its giving, and spread it over her.  Now what?

 

She was still shivering, under the quilt;  he remembered the miserable feeling of never being warm enough, except when you felt as though you were in an oven.  There hadn’t been enough blankets in the world. The only thing that had made him feel better was knowing there was someone with him, to hold him when he was cold, or when the coughing threatened to break him apart, and to keep the fire warm.  A fire. Ben should make a fire. NO. He looked around at the trees, and the undergrowth, and all the  _ life _ .  He looked at Exilium, there happily chewing away at his supper, and imagined one wrong move making a torch of this place, the oak, the bracken bed.  The only way he know to keep a fire safe was to put it in a lantern, and even then he never really trusted it not to escape.

 

Ben  _ remembered  _ the way flames moved in the curling tendrils of a horse’s mane.  He knew what it would sound like, he wished he could forget, the hooves and the desperate noises; he knew how it would  _ smell _ , and he was backing away from the stallion, who was snorting and dancing in place now, and he’d tripped over a root again and sat down with bruising force against the trunk of the oak.  Which...was NOT on fire. Nothing was on fire. He could breathe, he  _ could _ , no matter what his lungs and his mind had to say about it.  The only heat here was the dissipating remnant of a summer’s day; there was nothing to throw writhing shadows on the ground, and there was no sound except the small life he could hear scurrying all around him and the increasingly agitated horse in front of him.

 

No fire.  He was not going to make a fire.  Ben sat just breathing until that was all he was doing; breathing, not choking, not remembering.  Exilium calmed as Ben did, going back to the remainder of the grass. No fire. He’d just have to work with what he could do.  He laid down on the bracken, glad there was no one to notice how red he was, and sort of gingerly moved himself until his back was against hers, where she’d curled herself into a ball under the quilt.  He wasn’t sure how to...should he stay still?

 

After a few minutes she straightened out, as though to put as much of herself against as much of him as she could.  That made sense. She was cold. What puzzled Ben was that it made him feel better, too. Rey was solid, and real, and nothing was burning.  He hadn’t made a mistake, at least not yet, he was doing the best he could, and tomorrow he would try to be better, for her. It was good to have someone here, beside him.  Maybe tomorrow he could manage a fire...no; too dangerous, fire was...he was too… He was asleep before the thought was finished.

 

…

 

His fire kept making more fires.  He’d built a fire, because she was cold, and it was the right thing to do, to take care of her; but his fire kept making more fires.  Little fires leapt from his small, careful one, landing in the plants and the woods and the air,  _ burning _ ,  _ growing _ .  He couldn’t be trusted with fire.  Ben stepped on the little fires as they escaped, he tried, he stomped on them, trying not to burn his feet; but his feet  _ weren’t _ burning, why not?  And the sound, as he stepped, was strange; it sounded like...metal.   What…?

 

The landscape changed; narrower, and wider, all at the same time.  No, his field of vision was narrower; oh, no, no, he didn’t want to be back here, not this, he didn’t want this.  The fire couldn’t touch him in here. That was something. But it was still...there were fires, more fires, always more fires, and he wasn’t in the woods any more, not really, he didn’t know where he was, but everything was spread out below him, like a tapestry on the ground, but it  _ was _ the ground.  Here was the wood, he could see Exilium, small and far away, through the eye-slit of his helm; here was Canterbury, like a child’s carved toy, and one of the fires had gotten away again, and Saint Augustine’s was burning.

 

What could he do?  It was all too small, or far away, and he was watching it all, from where? as though he were on a hillside and it was all beneath him, or he was over it.  He tried to see, to get back to the places that were burning, so he could help, somehow, could help fight the flames. Ben looked at the abbey, and it was too late, far too late, the stables were burning, the dormitorium was burning, the refectory was burning, he should go in and find his brothers and bring them out, so they’d be safe, but the fire was covering everything, the walls and the beds and the rafters and he saw them, all of them, and it was covering them too, in flame and smoke. 

 

He couldn’t see now, the helm was in the way, the smoke was in the way, the fire was in the way.  Where was Timothy; where were Lorcan, and Dismus, and the others? They...were walking, out of the burning, but not out of the smoke, it followed them, clung to them, flowing like water, covering them as they moved, and they walked to stand beside him, somewhere, where he was, and the smoke, the dark metal, the black armor, covered them again, and he didn’t want this.  Ben didn’t want this, but they were all here, standing in orderly ranks, awaiting his command, and he couldn’t speak.  _ Stop _ , he thought,  _ go back to yourselves, find somewhere safe, get away from me, it’s me, it’s Ben, HELP me, no, go away where I can’t hurt you.   _ But there was no sound, there never was, and as though they were listening to some other voice they moved.  

 

Some of them, some of his knights, his men, NO, his  _ friends _ , moved, the tapestry shifting beneath them as they walked, he could see Salisbury, he could see  _ home,  _ it had been once; small and beautiful and far away.  His knights walked across to it, swords in their hands, fire in their hands; they surrounded it, his men, his knights, soldiers, surrounded it with flames, a circle getting smaller.  Ben turned to his other side, looking for help, or overseeing his command, no, not that,  _ stop, please stop,  _ and he saw the house, the small, cozy, comfortable house with its sheep and its Fates and their kindness.  No, no, not them, they didn’t even  _ know  _ him, he’d dragged them into his story.

 

His knights, his brothers, his friends, were walking, surrounding the cottage, swords and flames and smoke in their hands, and the circle drew tighter, the sheepfold was ablaze, the garden afire, he could smell burning wool and smoke and charred wood.   _ Stop.  This isn’t right, this isn’t you, I did this, obey me, STOP.   _ He leaned over to do...something, he didn’t know what, beat the flames out with his gauntlets, and there was a shadow, it changed as he moved, fires sprang up wherever it touched, this shadow, he put his hands back to touch; there were feathers under his hands, it was the shadow of his wings.  Everything was burning under the shade of his wings.

 

_ Help.   _ He thought there’d been help, wasn’t there...wings, someone with wings, Rey, his angel, where was she, he’d left her all alone, and her name brought him to where she was, the woods were on FIRE, the oak, the bracken, all of it was on FIRE.  He shouldn’t have tried to make a fire, it always got away, and Rey was standing in the middle of it, calmly, why wasn’t she running,  _ go, save yourself, get out of here! _ , but she stood, beautiful and serene and winged, as she always was, always had been, as angels always should be, and Finn came to stand beside her.  Where had he come from, he wasn’t here, but of course he was, there were two of them; two of them he needed. He looked at Finn,  _ help me, no, don’t, help HER, get away, both of you, I can’t lose you, not after I’ve found you, get AWAY. _

 

As he looked on, trying to warn them, to tell them he wasn’t worth it, they should run, his shadow fell over the wood, and the flames crawled, rising like a flood, with the smoke atop it like foam.  The flames and the smoke flowed and rose and surged, the smoke was covering them both. Finn’s staff was a torch now, he grinned as the sooty armor covered his face. He saluted with the staff, the sword, the column of fire he wielded; and next to him as the smoke rose to cover her, Rey’s wings were burning away, feathers and ash raining down under the burning branches of the oak.  One lone, unburned feather floated down to settle in her hand, a feather, a flame, a sword, and her face disappeared behind her helm of smoke.

 

Ben stood, to move, to try to get his world out from under his own black wings; but that only served to cover more of it, a moonless night punctuated by constellations of fire.  He looked to the hills, wasn’t that, somewhere it said that’s what he should do; but this hill, the one he’d been standing on, maybe, all this time, to oversee his work, this one was burning, all except for the gallows-tree.   That wasn’t burning; it stood, untouched, by the crossroads at the top of the slope, cruel and dark and sturdy amidst the conflagration.

 

…

 

The coughing woke her;  _ was _ she awake?  Rey wasn’t sure.  She’d been half-asleep most of the way here, it was hard to think with the words in the way, the words and pictures, the ones that had brought her to him.  She was hot; no, she was cold, sweltering and shivering, and the coughing, sharp and painful and exhausting. That was all right, Ben was here, he was taking care of her; wasn’t that her job?  She was supposed to get up, to get the food, to make sure he was all right, but she was too cold, too hot. She didn’t know where they were, not really, they’d come a long way, but she trusted him; and he’d come back with something to eat, with something warm, something to drink, like magic.

 

But now, this wasn’t, it wasn’t the same coughing; this was, there was smoke, her lungs were full of smoke, why?  What was burning? The  _ Abbey.   _ The abbey was burning, and there was Ben, she knew it was Ben, but he was different; there was something wrong with her eyes. He was frozen, he was made of mist and fog, watching it all but unable to touch, he said  _ no, stop, don’t, I don’t want this _ .  He was a knight, armored and winged with a sword of fire, but it was him, she knew him, and he was afraid.   He was smaller, younger, a boy, all hair in his eyes and big ears and awkward limbs, and he was  _ scared _ ; he was all of those things and himself, her Ben, and the Abbey was burning.

 

Where was her sword?  Where were her wings? She should have those things, shouldn’t she, to help him, to protect him, but she had only herself, her own hands, and she couldn’t  _ think _ , but she could move, even if he couldn’t; so she went to him, there where he was, the frightened boy, the trapped knight, the desperate ghost.  She found him, just Ben, alone and in danger and afraid, so she put her arms around him, so he wouldn’t be alone any more. He turned to her and he couldn’t speak, but she could hear him,  _ I can’t stop it, I don’t want this, it’s me, it’s my fault, stay away so you don’t burn too _ ; but it wasn’t, she knew that, and she was here to help, she was here for him, so she just kept holding on, so he’d know that he wasn’t alone, even if he thought he should be.

 

…

 

The darkling general was burning the world.  Finn could see it, the knights, the general, but this time they were in  _ his _ world.  Not a desolate stretch of bones and stone, but Saint Augustine’s, his place, now, he thought, he hoped; and the scriptorium was burning.  Finn didn’t know what to save; the books, the work, he should warn the brothers, he should get the horses to safety, he should tell the Abbot that there was a fire.  He turned, in his bed, he was in his bed again? He got up to get Ben, to drag him outside, to make sure he was safe, but he wasn’t there, the bed was empty, and Finn knew what he had to do.  He ran across the cloister, the grass was wet against his feet, to the chapter house, through it, down the corridor, he must be working, Ben was always working, his wet feet skidded on the stone floors.  

 

Finn reached the scriptorium, it was burning, the door was burning, he opened it anyway, searing his hands; there was the general, armored and winged and EMPTY, where was Ben?  It was a crackle of flame that answered him. Beside Ben’s desk, the enemy flowed and twisted and  _ reached _ , gouts of flame setting volume after volume alight as it swayed in place; and in front of it was Ben.  At least, Finn thought it must be, no, of course it was, the eyes were the same, sun-warmed golden-brown earth; but this was a boy, childish face forlorn and somehow resigned; his narrow shoulders slumped as he stood trapped between the demon and the raven-winged commander.  He shook his head slowly at Finn; the message was clear;  _ you can’t save me, don’t try _ .

 

The door behind him opened and there was Rey, running into battle as he knew she must, could, always would; the boy’s eyes widened and he turned his head to look at Finn.  The child, Ben, he said nothing, but Finn heard him nevertheless, not a child’s voice, but a man’s, Ben’s, low and hopeless, inside Finn’s head like a ghost, his Ben, the one he’d found;  _ help me...no, don’t, help HER, get away, both of you, I can’t lose you, not after I’ve found you, get AWAY.   _ He could  _ see _ him, translucent, helpless, as though he stood at Finn’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. The child’s eyes begged Finn, those eyes, the same eyes, their inner light was dimming, like smoke smothering the flame that had created it, like clouds covering the sun.  

 

He didn’t know what to do, how could he save them both, the demon had Ben, the child, his past; the general, what could be, what mustn’t be, was turning to look at Rey, wings growing larger and filled with impossible blackness, and in his mind, at his shoulder, from nowhere, the ghost of their scribe implored them to abandon him.  Finn lunged at the general, quarterstaff in hand, and woke with his sinuses stinging, the room filled with the smell of burning feathers. Daniel was sitting upright in the next bed, aghast; he was in the dormitorium at Saint Andrew’s and the brothers, some of them, were looking at him as though he’d screamed. Had he? Had he screamed?  His hands hurt, as though he’d held them too close to a fire.

 

…

 

Was Finn screaming?  The horses were screaming.  No, wait. Just one. Exilium was screaming, rearing as much as he could where he was tethered, hooves lacerating the air, head tossing; but he wasn’t burning.  Nothing was burning. And...Ben was sitting up on a bed of bracken, still green, unburned, and someone was holding him. Rey was holding him, his angel, kneeling at his side with her arms around him, hands stroking his hair.   _ Shhhhhhh _ ,  _ shhhhhhh, _ she was quieting him, comforting him, whispering to him; “Don’t...don’t cry,” she’d found a few of her own words, that was good, wasn’t it, if she could talk to him, even a little?

 

Was he crying?  He was; his chest was heaving, he found, shoulders shuddering, face streaked with salt and sweat.  He should go to try and calm the stallion, but he’d have to calm himself, he couldn’t catch his breath, he was shivering; that wasn’t right, it was Rey that was shivering, she was sick, he was supposed to be helping her.  She grabbed onto him, tighter, as though she’d heard him. She shouldn’t be anywhere near him, no one should; he’d destroy them all. Rey shook her head, violently, her face full of frustration; had she heard him again? Her eyes drifted to somewhere behind him, as though she were listening, or reading the air.

 

“And they/

Were gather’d, weigh’d and balanc’d for the task/

All three by time and by their striving forged/

Two cross’d the earth and ocean, to give strength/

To one; that he might never stand alone.

 

And he to lend his strength to them in turn/

Though all embattl'd, weary, sore afraid/

Now trav'ling backward on a forward path

Three burdens shar'd, three strands weav’d into one.”

 

What did he have to lend?  Nothing but horror, and risk. “I don’t...I shouldn’t share this with you, or with Finn.  I...need you, both of you; but it’s too much, it’s too dangerous.  _ I’m  _ too dangerous.  I should send you both away, as far as you can go.”  Before the fires started.

 

Rey shook her head, even more vehement than before; and this time she was crying.  “NO.” She took his hands in hers; she hadn’t shown fear, not really. She was scared now.  “Please.” This, all of this, didn’t frighten her; but he’d said he should send them away, and that was what scared her.  Why? Thinking was helping, a little; and seeing her fearful, Ben knew he needed to be the strong one, that was his job right now.  They were all right. He should say that. “We’re all right. It was a dream; I think. Just a dream. I hope.” It was easier, to quiet himself, to be still, if he thought about Rey; Exilium had dropped back to all four feet and he was quieting, he was still too.

 

Lend strength.  How did you do that?  It was a silly question; he knew.  The same way they’d given it to him.  Ben shifted to take Rey in his arms; he stroked her hair, as she’d done for him, until she stopped weeping.  He held her, as she’d done for him; as he and Finn had done, for each other, for warmth, and comfort, and to know someone was there.  And when she quieted, head on his shoulder, asleep again, he settled them both back down on the bracken, Rey still secure against him. It was what he had to give.

 

…

  
  


Breakfast was awkward.  The brothers at Saint Andrew’s kept sneaking looks at Finn as he ate and talking amongst themselves.  He had indeed woken half the dormitorium, he’d learned, including Brother Daniel; and they were all evidently curious to know what might lead this brother of Saint Augustine’s with the foreign accent to shout in his sleep like that; and what language that had been?  Finn couldn’t decide if it was better that they hadn’t been able to understand him, or worse that he’d been shouting in a tongue unknown to them; he supposed he’d been speaking in Amharic, in his sleep.

 

He could hear them, some of them, asking whether all brothers from far away were so strange, or just the descendants of Prester John; why wasn’t he talking to any of them? He’d certainly been loud enough last night. And how had Saint Augustine’s merited the addition of a brother with royal blood in his veins?  This, combined with his not exactly restful night and worrying about just what might have led to that dream, was fraying his already uncertain hold on his temper. Silence. Finn thought he could just about manage silence. 

 

Daniel, to all appearances, was even more comfortable with silence; he hadn’t asked any questions, once he’d assured himself that no one was injured.  Finn had always thought himself a calm and patient person; but just now he envied Daniel his phlegmatic disposition. Neither calm nor patient seemed to be in his arsenal this morning.  The last time he’d seen fire; well, it hadn’t been a dream, he and Rey had both been wide awake. And there’d been fire, in the waking world, was that the right thing to call it? There at Bath, and it seemed at Saint Augustine’s, the fire had been real.  

 

Had something been burning, last night, in Canterbury?  The shudder that thought produced had even Daniel casting a sidelong glance at him.  Ben and Rey were together; they had to be, he’d seen that, half-asleep in the saddle; but the thought that both of them might be in danger and there was nothing Finn could do about it from here was pure agony.  By the time he heard one of the brothers of Saint Andrews asking about Ethiopia, wasn’t that where the Gospels had gone, the book Brother Benedictus had written; surely Brother Finn had seen it, they should ask him, Finn’s shoulders were in knots and the urge to ride back to Canterbury was nearly a plan.

 

He was considering the possible consequences of that action.  This was ludicrous; the very volume, broken and covered in blood, was in the bag hanging from his shoulder right now.  The thought of that book brought back again the horror of last night’s dream. Vision? All the books had been burning. At Saint Augustine’s, he was known, at least a little; familiar, not the object of curiosity, however friendly it might be.  There, too, he could assure himself that Ben and Rey were both safe, and the other brothers, too. But turning in the middle of their trip and riding pell-mell for the abbey wasn’t likely to make his place there any more secure.

 

Finn had stopped as they saddled the horses and made ready to depart; he was leaning his head against the mare’s side, anxious and conflicted, feeling inside his satchel to touch the book, the Gospels. It was still there, still secret.  At once, his mouth was filled with the taste of strawberries. There’d been no such fruit at breakfast, but the tart-sweet flavor was unmistakable. Eyes closed, he could feel the burst of juice on his tongue, and hear a sound he’d heard only once before;  Ben was laughing. Finn could feel a hand on his own, feel the small shape of the fruit in his palm. He felt hot, and a little confused; but over all of that was a sense of surprise, and delight. It was enough reassurance, for now. 

 

…

 

Rey’s raptures over the little handful of strawberries he’d picked were extremely gratifying.  The speed with which she popped the first one into her mouth when he placed it in her hand surprised a laugh out of him; which made her grin out of the side of her mouth as she chewed.  She insisted on sharing, and he was happy to comply. It made a nice addition to their bread and cheese, and Ben knew he’d be looking out for more as they rode. She’d thrown her arms around him in thanks; such a small thing, to make her so happy.  He was still smiling as he lifted her onto Exilium’s back to start their second day’s travel. Making Rey happy was something he enjoyed a great deal.

 

He kept up the flow of talk; it seemed to help with controlling the stallion, but Ben wasn’t sure that it mattered what he said.  So he talked to Rey about anything that went through his mind, and he asked her questions, here and there, though he didn’t really expect her to reply.  A few words at a time seem to be the most of which she was capable right now; that was all right; Ben had been silent for so long that he had enough words bottled up inside him for both of them.

 

Mostly she didn’t answer.  Between bouts of coughing and what seemed to be a compulsion to touch him, whether for her reassurance or his own he didn’t know, she just listened.  Ben talked about butterflies, and trees, and told her about his rambles through the grounds of Saint Augustine’s and the inspiration to be found in nature.  He told her about the bestiary he’d made, and how proud he’d been of the illustrations; how he’d gone quiet and still to spot hares in the grass, to study the shape of their eyes and the jaunty tilt of their ears, and laughed at hedgehogs rolling themselves into little balls at his approach.

 

Inevitably, this made him think about the less savory consequences of that book.  Here out in the middle of the countryside, Ben could confide his fears that all his work was contaminated, dangerous; and his worries that other of his works might be out in the world right now with the mark of evil within them.  Callum’s sorrow, he knew, was his fault. He’d heard the story, there in the refectory, he told Rey, and known that it was his work that had driven poor Brother Malcolm mad. He hoped no one else had been lost.

 

Ben didn’t know how they were going to fight, he told her, but he knew they must.   There were a few tears, here and there, soaking through the back of his robe, as he spoke; he should stop upsetting her, that wasn’t right.  So he asked about her work with the new brother, and aloud, wondered whether Rey liked caring for the bees. To this there was a response; Ben couldn’t decide whether it was a description of the work or warning and advice, but something told him the words were important.  

 

“Look to the bees if you would lessons find/

Inbringing golden goodness from each flower

Lock'd virtue in the products of their time/

And in themselves; their works divine and sweet.

 

They shelter and protect, serve and defend;/

Invaders who would seek to harm the hive/

Find ir'n-willed war; yet if their own should be lost/

A gentle hum of voices calls them home.”

 

He decided, when they stopped for the night, that he would start to write down the things she’d said, just in case.  

 

…

 

A cough, they’d said; so Lorcan had gone prepared, even though he suspected this remedy wouldn’t be needed.  Honey, the inner bark of cherry trees, hyssop and horehound, all brewed into a tea still steaming as he’d carried it to the guest house; but he found, as he’d feared, that the room had been emptied and no one was there.  It was no wonder, really, that Dismus hadn’t realized she (he! Lorcan had better remember) was gone; he’d had to take over the care of all the Abbey’s horses at a moment’s notice and no help, with Daniel gone and Timothy injured, and he really was beside himself with worry over Benedictus.  Dismus had always been partial to the boy.

 

He’d sat on the stool in the empty room and drunk the tea himself; no sense letting it go to waste, and it wouldn’t do him any harm. The honey was soothing on his tongue, and the sitting and drinking equally soothing to his troubled mind.  When he’d finished delaying the inevitable, he’d gone to tell the others that Brother Reymund was missing as well; then he'd fled the uproar that followed, just as glad he had a patient to tend. He had no doubt, with the Abbot away and no more information about Reymund than they’d had about where Benedictus had gone, that the brothers would come to the same conclusion after they’d had a good twitter about it, like a flock of sparrows disturbed at their roost. There was nothing, for now, that could be done.

 

Lorcan would have thought, after all this time, that he’d be better at waiting than he’d been.  There was certainly enough to do; summer’s bounty to be gathered and distilled into its purest virtues, for the healing of the body, and if needed, the mind.  He tried to occupy himself, making lists, thinking of tasks; but time and again his thoughts turned to where on earth Ben might have gone. Dozens and dozens of years later, he discovered, there was still nothing he hated more than a problem he couldn’t solve.  

 

She’d told him, over and over, his Lark.  “There comes a time when we must simply accept; lest in trying to solve a puzzle, we forget to think of the person; someone real who needs love and care, rather than a problem that must be overcome.  There will come, as you learn, times when you must simply enjoy the sweetness that is now.” Like so many things he’d learned from her, he hadn’t understood at first. His own recovery had been all impatience and burning to be well again, to  _ move _ ; then later, to be hers, in all the ways he could be.  He really had been quite thick in those days; it was a wonder she’d managed to teach him anything at all.  It had started with a cough, too.

 

He hadn’t understood, until he’d realized how ill she herself was, that she hadn’t been talking about him.  He’d studied, and raged, and wept, and tried every remedy, every bit of knowledge she and her sisters and cousins and aunts and mother had given him; but in the end, all that had been left to him to do was make her remaining time, her  _ now _ , sweet.  The way she’d smiled, even at the last, had given him hope that he’d succeeded.  His hands moved now, automatically, to make the medicines, to care for Timothy, to go about his tasks, while fond tears stood in his eyes and the taste of honey lingered on his tongue.

 

…

 

Ben’s voice was tired.  The rest of him was, too.  A second full day of travel on horseback hadn’t made him any less sore; or Rey either, he guessed.  He was still talking, though, as they came to a halt. He knew the name of this place; well, the town nearby, they weren’t really going anywhere near it.  It was called Godstone, now, but once it had been known by another name, Walkingstead. He told Rey, as he lifted her down from Exilium’s back, how that sounded as though someone just liked to have a ramble now and then, like Ben did himself. But if you went back and looked at the old words, the older English, that he thought it really meant Welkin Place; like a cloud city.  

 

There wasn’t much here.  Ben knew the town had been hit hard by the plague, the Black Death, when his parents were young;  they were just now rebuilding. He didn’t tell Rey that, though. Instead, he spread the quilt over her, made sure they both had something to eat and drink, and told her a story; just a silly story he made up on the spot, about people who lived in in a city built on clouds, led by a charming and well-turned-out king who wanted very much to keep them safe; and eventually, somewhere in the middle of it, they both fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps the best way to encourage someone to reject help would be to suggest that they might tear it down instead of being lifted up themselves. A subtle and nasty piece of business, that. Fortunately, our warrior and angel are hard to discourage.
> 
> The etymology of Godstone's former name is completely real. Wuulicinsted or Wachelstede call back to Wolcen (a personal name that shares a root with our English word Welkin, or cloud) and stede (place, homestead; or, if you've got a slightly larger sphere of influence--city).
> 
> Europeans (particularly England) had some very, very odd ideas about Ethiopia at this time. And every once in a while Brother Finn is reminded that he's walking around with a king's ransom in his bag; essentially, he's stolen the equivalent of the Resolute Desk.


	23. Travectio et Trepidatio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 23: Travectio et Trepidatio, Crossings and Consternation  
> In which Brother Ben decides the words are important and should be preserved. In which some puzzles are solved and things remembered for Rey, but Ben remains almost entirely clueless. In which Brother Finn hurts Abbot Luke with the memory of sparrows. In which water and fear are a problem, but also an opportunity. In which kindness returns. In which Brother Ben talks to a horse the way he should talk to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not intended, when this started, for each day's travel to be a chapter; but Ben and Rey are learning each other; it's only fair.

The words needed to be written, all of them.  Ben didn’t understand why Rey had these words; some of them seemed to be answers to his questions, or encouragement along the way.  Others were more cryptic; they might be warnings. But he had no doubt that what she said, or wrote, was important. He’d woken first, here in the woods at Godstone, so he set out pen and ink and parchment from his bag on a handy stump and set to work.  Drypoint wouldn’t do; this, he felt, required the permanence of ink. 

 

Out of long training, though, he found himself ruling the parchment in drypoint nonetheless; he shook his head at the folly of considering neatness and precision, out here in the woods halfway between the present and the past.  Ben certainly didn’t expect scholars to have to read what he was writing; this wasn’t meant for anyone but the three of them.

 

There was no need to record the words Rey had written, that page was already out in the world, with Finn.  Ben found himself reluctant to let there be a second copy, to give that horror any more strength; and there was no chance that he would forget it.  So he wrote about bees, and being known; about lending strength and setting aside turmoil for courage. He found he’d ruled the whole parchment, and left room for a drawing or two.  He was, apparently, a creature of habit.

 

Those habits included illustration, and he needn’t look any further for a subject than the bracken bed he’d just left.  They would go, as soon as Rey woke; they still had a long way to travel. He’d sketched his Warrior and Angel before; it had given him comfort.  Here, though, in the forest, on a smaller parchment scrap, he would give in to the impulse he’d had at first sight and see whether he could do justice to how beautiful she really was.  Rey lay on her side, one of the quilt’s sheltering wings draped over her sleeping form. And that was how he drew her; a slumbering angel, warmed by a cloak of her own plumage.

 

Ben turned from adding a few last touches to the sketch, like the lock of hair that curled around the curve of her cheek and the stubborn lines of her jaw, to see that she was watching him.  He got up to bring her some water and a little breakfast. Rey smiled, and gently brushed the ink marks on his fingers, which unaccountably made him shiver. Her gaze turned inward, bread forgotten in her hand as she intoned in the voice he’d come to recognize. 

 

_ “The Poet, bow'd and bloodied, in despair _

_ In penance folded ink-stain'd hands to pray, _

_ Believ'd himself unworthy, curs'd, alone; _

_ No longer had he strength to fight the flames. _

 

_ In solitude our Lady lent her aid _

_ When two together call'd to fight, to wait; _

_ The Warrior and Angel, arm'd with hope. _

_ Then bless'd was he, in warmth unseen, in name.” _

 

They were both shivering now.  “You came to me, both of you. ‘In penance’; yes, Abbot Luke set me to prayer and fasting.  I defied him.” He bowed his head in remembered shame. “I almost struck him; I am not proud of that.  It seemed as though it would be useless to fight any longer. But then I heard you, both of you. I couldn’t see you, but I could feel you, and hear you call my name.”  He took her hands in his; they were cold, so he covered them to warm them as best he could. “It was enough, to know you were both on your way; it reminded me that I wasn’t in this alone.”

 

Rey looked puzzled.  “Your name...” And then her eyes rounded in surprise.  “Benedictus,” she said, and her tone held the sound of an epiphany, as though some puzzle had been solved.  Ben smiled at her as she said his name. He didn’t understand, but whatever she’d realized made her happy. That was good enough.  He added these latest words to the parchment as she finished her breakfast, made sure the ink was dry and the parchment put away in his bag; and then it was time to get moving again.

 

…

 

Finn dreamed of an angel, and opened his eyes with joy.  He’d seen her resting, peaceful; and felt the pressure of a quill in his fingers, so familiar.  A lock of hair had fallen to lie across her cheek as she slept, hands curled beneath her head. One wing, extended, covered her from shoulder to foot.  Finn couldn’t resist. He’d brushed his hand over the feathers, warm and soft, a rich cream-and-brown touched with blue light that came from everywhere and nowhere.  The pinions were like nothing he had ever felt before. He could see and touch the individual barbs as he knelt beside her. As he moved his hand, thinking to tuck the stray lock behind her ear, she woke; her eyes met his, like an embrace, for an instant before he woke as well.  

 

….

 

Ben talked to Rey, as they rode, as he’d come to understand that he needed to do.  “I didn’t understand why Abbot Luke was so angry; I still don’t. He seemed to be upset about an illustration.  I think it was the last one I’d made that day, but there was nothing in it that should have upset anyone. It was just a pine tree, and a building, and two people standing next to the tree; and there were sparrows, lots of them, nesting in the tree and swooping around it.  Little birds with markings around their eyes, like spectacles. What could be wrong with any of that?”

 

A faint sound against his shoulder was the only answer, at first; Ben wasn’t sure if it was a gasp, a soft laugh, or a sigh.  A further answer came as they rode, but it wasn’t nearly as illuminating as he would have liked.

 

_ “A story taken, and a story left/ _

_ Part of it all, yet incomplete, apart/ _

_ An older tale, bound up and caught within/ _

_ Of love, and loss, of conflict's end, of time. _

 

_ Images hidden, kept, the stories told/ _

_ And liv'd, return to aid in coming strife/ _

_ Whisper'd to sparrows, written, dream'd, or drawn/ _

_ Shall bind together need, and love, and light.” _

 

Ben was baffled.   He had no idea what to say to that, so he kept talking.  “He...wanted to know how I was getting the pictures, the illustrations, in my work.  I didn’t know what to say. I told him I didn’t know how they came to me; it wasn’t entirely a lie.  Not all of them came from...it, from the enemy. But I was *trying*; I’m still trying, and fighting, to make the work what it should be. And...I got angry, and I wondered if there was something about me, some darkness in me that led to...this.”  He felt himself shudder. “I wonder that a lot. But the two of you were sent to me; and when I felt you, heard you; I found hope again.”

 

He felt Rey shake her head, there at his back, and her hand rose to stroke the line of his jaw.

 

“...hope,” was all she said.  There was; Ben could feel it.

 

He returned, as had become habit, to more innocuous topics that wouldn’t make things harder for Rey; Ben could feel her shivering, and feel the coughing tear at her as they rode.  He told her a little about Reigate, as they made a wide arc around it; about the castle, and its history, and the spaces beneath. He spoke, again, about the trees, and the land, as they rode through it; and now that he knew how much she loved them, Ben kept an eye out for wild strawberries as they rode.  He found a few, when he stopped to fill the waterskin again. The gleam of anticipation in Rey’s eyes was all the reward he needed for his efforts.

 

…

  
  


When they stopped for a meal at midday, Finn scattered crumbs for the sparrows nesting in the tree under which they sat.  He laughed to see them busily tucking away the unexpected feast. One should always appreciate such a thing, an unforeseen bounty; Rey had taught him that.  Daniel eyed him curiously as he watched the birds. Finn shrugged. “I like sparrows; they are always busy, working together. One never sees them alone. And they remind me of Santa Maria de Moreruela, where Brother Reymund and I stopped in Spain; there were a multitude of them there, nesting in the trees in the convent garden.   Busy and full of talk and industry; they were a bit like the sisters there.”

 

From the other side of Finn, where Abbot Luke was finishing his meal, there was a soft sound; too soft for Daniel to hear, he thought, but it was clear enough in Finn’s ear.  It sounded, for all the world, as though the abbot had taken a blow to the belly; a rush of exhaled breath and a grunt. There was nothing on his face, though, when Finn looked away from Daniel, to indicate pain,; or really anything at all.  He, too, was gazing at the sparrows, his head tilted to one side, as though he were listening to them whisper to each other, and as if they had something to say that was important for him to hear. Abbot Luke turned his eyes to Finn, dark and unreadable, before getting to his feet with a wince and a hand to his back.  He declared, flatly, “It’s time we were back on the road again.”

 

…

 

They’d been riding for hours, again, with a few stops here and there when Exilium or Rey grew fatigued, when Ben realized they were approaching Guildford.  The dim memories of a dozen years ago suggested that their route would require some consideration. He knew the River Wey flowed through the town; and though he wanted to avoid large settlements as much as he could, his options would be limited.  “We may need to go through Guildford here. There’s a bridge, I think, through the center of town, which would be easier than the ford, the Golden Ford, that’s what the name means.”

 

Rey stiffened behind him, where she’d been half-asleep; just awake enough to hold on to Ben, and once in a while drowsily brush her hand across his chest or arm, or twine her fingers in his hair.  When he finished speaking, though, she made a quick, almost violent motion of her head against him; and he could hear her breathing get faster before she started to cough. She’d been coughing, on and off, all day; but she didn’t seem to be able to stop this time.  Ben reined in the stallion, a maneuver that was becoming a little easier as he grew more familiar with it, and slid clumsily to the ground. He was just in time to catch her as she bent with the spasms and fell from Exilium’s back, still coughing.

 

“Rey?!  What’s the matter?”  Foolish question, he thought.  It was obvious what the problem was; and yet, he thought, there had been something wrong before it had started.  One thing at a time. “I have to put you down, just for a minute, so I can tether Exilium. All right?” She nodded, still coughing; so he set her down to sit on the grass and walked the stallion over to a nearby root.  He hurried back to Rey; it was considerably longer before she could stop. All Ben could do was rub her back, and offer her a drink of water. Once the spasms had subsided, she slumped against him, exhausted.

 

“You…   Did I say something?  It sounded; no, it felt like you were afraid.  I don’t know how to help.” The frustration in his voice roused her, where she was leaning on his shoulder. She sat upright to look at him, her eyes imploring him to do something.  “Is it the town? Does it bother you, that we might need to go through Guildford?” He took both her hands. “I don’t like the idea either, but if we wait until dusk I think we’ll be less likely to be noticed, and we can cross the bridge before we camp on the other side.”  There it was again, the shake of her head; and now that he could see her, Rey was definitely scared.

 

She was still struggling for an easy breath; and he wasn’t helping, asking her questions about things that frightened her.  He could fix this, even if he didn’t know exactly what it was. “It’s crossing the river? There is the ford, the old one, on the south side of the town but outside its limits.”  History he knew, even if his other skills were lacking. “Would it be better if we went that way? Would that make this easier?” Rey nodded, sagging against him with relief. “Then that’s what we’ll do.  I can do that.” He could probably do that. And he’d somehow just made a plan to get a horse, and a woman who could barely sit up on her own right now, across a ford. 

 

That was exactly what Ben was going to do, though, because it was what she needed; why didn’t matter.  He lifted her chin, gently, until she was looking at him again. “Rey? I need you to stay awake long enough to get back on the horse; I’m sorry.  I’ll put you in front of me again, I think that’ll be easier now. We’ll go to the ford, and then once we’re across, you can sleep.” Rey closed her eyes.  He was worried she was going back to sleep, but she shifted back away from him a little and held out her arms. Ben stood, scooped her up off the grass, and lifted her onto Exilium, who was cropping the wiry grass with unusual patience.

 

He had to lead the stallion a little way through the woods before he found something he could use to mount.  Rey was shaky enough that Ben supported her with one hand until he did, then swung up behind her. It was tempting, almost beyond his ability to resist, to let his hands explore as hers had; but it wouldn’t be right, and he really did need them on the reins.   When he was angled south and west according to the sun, they rode until he could see the river, calmly rolling between its banks. Ben knew, from what he’d read, to look for golden sands; he was pleased to find that this was an accurate description. They rested until the sun was setting; they’d have just enough light to ford the Wey and set up their camp before it was dark.

 

Rey would go first.  Ben would have to carry her, that was clear.  She was in no shape to fight the current. It was a time of day when most folk were thinking about the evening meal and their beds; and the ford didn’t see much use any more, since the bridges had been built.  There was no one around at this particular stretch of the river, and a bend just beyond concealed it from the rest. Good. He tethered the stallion to some of the low scrub lining the river’s banks, and put his hand on Rey’s shoulder.  “We’re here. Can you wake up for me? I’ll take you across first, then lead Exilium.” She lifted her head to look at the water and nodded.

 

Ben slid down onto the sand.  Oh. A logistical problem that he hadn’t considered was rapidly presenting itself.  Summer aside, it would not be a good idea to sleep in a sopping wet robe, and he didn’t have any other clothing.  OH. “Rey? I have to,” he cleared his throat, “let Exilium carry my robe for this, so I have something to wear once we get across.  Can you get onto my back, from there, so I can carry you?” He looked back at Rey; she might be turning pink, though that could just be the fever.  

 

Ben could feel the heat and color creeping up his face.  She gave him a thoughtful look, then smiled. He turned back around, sure that his face was by now as hot as a smith’s forge.  He pulled his robe off over his head, folded it neatly, and placed it atop the shrub where he’d knotted the reins, standing on the bank in just his braies.  There was a sharp breath behind him as Ben backed up to Exilium’s flank.

 

Rey’s arms were around him, her hands and arms hot against Ben’s bare shoulders and chest. Hair trailed along his skin, the brush of a wing.  Her feet came around to brace against the muscle of his belly and her mouth was pressed to his neck; and it was all at once very hard to think.  Ben wrestled his stuttering thoughts back onto the proper path with some difficulty; fording the river. He was fording a river; and he would not let her fall.

 

…

 

Rey hadn’t known where they were; the day had been one endless blur of trees.  Ben knew, somehow, when she couldn’t go on any longer; and he would let her rest until she could hold onto him again.  That was good, when she could hold onto him, could touch him. It was always better when she could touch. She’d dreamed of Finn, and his wonderful smile, this morning, as he caressed her wing; or had he been here?  When she’d woken up she’d been looking at Ben and heard him happily humming as he sketched. Those had both been very fine things. 

 

By the time Ben had said where they were, Guildford, Rey knew that name, she’d been so  _ tired _ ; and he’d said they were going to go over the bridge.  Finn was falling. There was danger, and dark water, and Finn was taken from her as he said her  _ name _ ; and what if she never got to see him again, to touch him?  No, wait. That had already happened, and he was still with her; but he wasn’t, right now.  Why wasn’t he here too? She couldn’t remember. Ben was here, and he was asking questions, and looking at her as though he wanted to make things better. 

 

He said they didn’t have to take the bridge, and that was good.  That was where it happened, was happening, and she was rooted to the ground and couldn’t do anything but wonder if she’d be alone, no, that wasn’t now, that wasn’t Ben; and then she was coughing, and her ribs were shaking and her belly was sore and her head ached and she couldn’t stop.  The black bees were swarming again, around the edges; no, there were no black bees here, that was the cough, sharp and dizzying and painful. And Ben had held her, and given her water to drink, and helped her know she was still here; until she could mostly breathe again.

 

The ground was made of gold.  Ben had asked her to be awake, so she was, and he’d said something about clothes and holding onto his back.  She could do that, but...and then he’d pulled that black robe off over his head and she could see more of him, and touch too; there was a lot of him to appreciate, that was very good. He was so beautiful. She was hot and cold and confused, but now Rey could touch his SKIN and the more of it she touched, the better she felt, more  _ here _ , and less as if this might be a dream she was dreaming alone.  

 

She wrapped her arms and legs around him and clung to the feel of muscles moving under his skin as he stepped into the river, laying her head down at the nape of his neck.  His hair was soft, and his back was broad, solid under her belly and breasts through her robe. She looked down at him as he moved; he was pale, all long limbs and wide shoulders.  Rey risked lifting one hand, to smooth it over the shape of arm and chest; his skin was almost silken, the strength hidden beneath as Ben carried her easily through the water. She made happy sounds, where her mouth pressed against him, and she could feel him shiver; the water must be cold.

 

He spread his arms to either side for balance, and Rey could  _ feel  _ the snatching, the pulling at him; it made her dizzy, so she closed her eyes and pressed her nose against the back of his head. She clasped her hands back around each other in front of him as the world tilted.  He knew, again; and wrapped one hand around her ankle where it was pressed into his belly and the other around both of her hands as he kept walking. She was safe. Ben would keep her safe, and here, and real; anchored to him, so the rushing and pulling couldn’t take them away from each other.  She would be safe, and Finn would be safe, and they would save him, their scribe.

 

…

 

It was hard work, keeping Rey out of the water; she was  _ very  _ distracting. The touching...was...all in itself, making it hard to concentrate; and more of Rey’s feelings were mingling into his own.  Halfway across, when the water rose to his waist, she was scared and unsteady. Ben could tell, which was very useful, but it made him feel dizzy too, which was not at  _ all  _ helpful in this case.  He drew in his hands, which he’d been using to aid his balance, and held on to her instead, so there was no danger that she might fall.  That made both of them feel better. It was too long, and not long enough, before they reached the opposite bank.

 

Ben puzzled over how to help her down from his back; then gave up and simply sat down on the golden sands.  “Rey? It’s over; we made it across.” She made a sleepy sound and kept right on clinging to him; it made Ben’s heart lurch in his chest, but he had work to do.  “I know, I’m sorry; but I need you to let go so I can lead Exilium across. Can you do that for me? You can sit right here, on the sand. I’ll be back before you know it.”  There was a small sigh that whispered across his skin, oh; but she disentangled her arms and legs from Ben and slid to the sandy bank to sit, shivering in the cooler temperatures of dusk by the river.  He was going to need to be quick; she needed sleep, and warmth.

 

Crossing back to their starting point was easier on his own, but Ben found himself glancing over his shoulder to make sure Rey was still there.  He knew she was, but he couldn’t help himself. Their various bags and waterskin, straps knotted together, draped over Exilium’s back easily enough, with his robe under them; he attached the basket haphazardly, as well as he could.  Ben untied the reins from the riverside scrub he’d used to secure them and began leading the stallion toward the ford. Things had been going so well, shockingly well, between Ben and Exilium, that he was more surprised than he should have been when the stallion balked.

 

Exilium stopped dead just before the water, head tossing, feet dancing in place; Ben heard the beat of his pulse in his ears.  He should have expected that, he supposed. He looked back at Rey, across the water; she was still sitting where he’d left her, more or less upright and, he thought, looking at him.  Ben leaned his head against the stallion’s side, warm and a little twitchy. Ben felt a little twitchy himself. 

 

He spoke into the great barrel, his words lost, but he knew Exilium would understand what he could.   “I know this is new; all of this. It’s new for me, too. You have no idea. But it’s only water. It won’t hurt you.  I won’t let it. We need you; and you’ve been...better, and considerably more agreeable, than I’d have thought you could be.  I’m proud of you. I’m in a hurry, though; she’s cold, and sick, and confused. I don’t want to leave her for long. So please...I’ll...brush you, and dry you, with whatever I can find, when we get across; but I need you to step into the river.  Trust me.”

 

There was a low, choppy rumble that Ben could feel through the horse’s ribs and his own. Exilium’s head snaked around to snuffle in the hair under Ben’s ear as he blew a grass-scented breath.  Ben had learned to understand this as agreement; he took the reins again and stepped out into the water. The stallion followed, still nervously snorting as he went, but apparently willing. Ben held onto the halter at Exilium’s head and murmured toward his ear as they went;  _ see, it’s not so bad, you’re strong enough to resist it, you can do this, you didn’t know you could, but you can, I’ll help you _ , just as he remembered Finn had done.   

 

They were most of the way to the other side when something spooked Exilium; it might have been the quick gust of wind that chilled their wet flesh, or the rustle of the trees in reaction to it.  The end result was the same; the stallion shied to one side, then the other, trying to lift his hooves and rear. The second of these movements was straight into Ben, who fell into the Wey with a splash.  Fortunately, the river was still relatively calm, and once he determined which direction was the surface, Ben had no trouble remembering the swimming he’d done as a child. He was more worried that Exilium would hurt himself, or lose his footing.  On the heels of that thought came a spike of fear, sharp and urgent, followed in quick succession by a painful surge of despair and loss; neither of which felt as though they entirely belonged to him.

 

Ben swam at an angle toward the bank and grabbed hold of some of the brush at the river’s edge.  He pulled himself against the current until he reached the ford and found that he could stand, and blink and rub his eyes clear of water.  It wasn’t easy, by any means;,but once he was on his feet again, he saw Exilium, standing perfectly still in the middle of the ford. Equine expressions were not Ben’s area of expertise, but he was reasonably certain this one said “I don’t know what to do”.  A muffled sound of sobs came from the bank where he’d left Rey; damnation! He couldn’t leave the stallion in the middle of the Wey; they both trusted him.

 

The sounds, and some whisper of the feelings, from the bank were breaking his heart; but Ben walked back to the middle of the river, took hold of the now apologetic-looking stallion’s halter, and continued their careful progress to the far bank.  He was tethering Exilium, as quickly as he could, when he felt Rey totter into him; he hadn’t thought she could stand, not really. She was trembling and rasping, whooping sobs poured out of her as she threw her arms around him, as much to stay upright as for any other reason.  Ben pulled her close to him and drew his hand, over and over, down her hair, whispering  _ shhhhh, shhhh, I’m here, I’m all right, it’s just a little water, nothing more, we’re all right _ .

 

The words weren’t as clear this time.  They were hoarse, warped by tears and muffled against him; these seemed reluctant to emerge, as though they were a part of the story...it was a story, wasn’t it?...that Rey didn’t want to speak.

 

_ “In rayless deluge was the Warrior vanish'd/ _

_ His plea, the Angel's name, in terror rang;/ _

_ But frozen stood the wing'd one on the shore/ _

_ Of clutching darkness, calling, drown'd in dread. _

 

_ A living length of lightning arrow'd out/ _

_ Across the grasping rush, all bold and fair/ _

_ And pulled our Warrior from the greedy tumble/ _

_ To fall, to breathe, and living rise again.” _

 

“You...Finn?  Drowned? But he wasn’t, you weren’t...Was that why you didn’t want to cross…?  I’m sorry, I didn’t know; but,” he ducked his head to look into her eyes, “it’s all right.  I can swim, I learned how when I was small; I’m not hurt, see? Just wet. I didn’t know that happened to him, to you.  I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.” She shook her head and clung tightly to him as she cried.

 

She started coughing again. When it stopped, this time, it was clear that Rey was not going to be able to sit the horse long enough for Ben to mount; she was glassy-eyed and wheezing.  Ben settled for picking her up, clumsily, in one arm, and untying the halter with his other hand so he could lead Exilium into the woods past the river’s edge as he carried Rey. His entire body ached by the time he felt they’d gone far enough into the wood and found a suitable place to rest. 

 

He carefully lowered Rey to sit leaning against the trunk of a tree. Thank God bracken seemed to be omnipresent. Ben filled their waterskin, made a pallet for their bed, and pulled armfuls of grass for the stallion.  He brushed down Exilium as best he could manage, with a branching twig he’d found, and, now mostly dry, slipped his robe back on over his head. His braies were soaked; they ended up hanging from a nearby tree limb to dry.  Then, finally, Ben stumbled back to where Rey was sitting; she was awake, but barely, as though she’d been waiting for him to return before she could sleep. 

 

They were both shivering now. He made sure she drank some water, lifted her onto the bracken bed, spread out the quilt, and crawled under it next to her. She was trembling, but she was warm to the touch; and she didn’t shiver as much, once he was with her.  Ben was well past caring about propriety, awkwardness, or anything else except how bone-tired and cold he was at this point; he curled himself around Rey and immediately fell asleep.

 

...

 

There was nothing but water around him.  Finn shivered. He knew this water, and it knew him; it was hungry.  But...he was safe. Someone was carrying him, and he would not fall. He hadn’t been carried in a very long time; not since he’d grown too big for wizened little Brother Yohannes to manage.  He could feel...worry, and confusion, concern and fear. 

 

It was impossible to separate the feelings from each other, and from himself. They’d crossed the bridge, and the water had taken him away, and that meant being alone, being no one, being unknown.  That meant losing something very important; a smile, a task shared, a place and person and time where you could be yourself. But it was safe, this time, and the river wouldn’t take again. Here he was held together; solid, and real, and strong.

 

He was responsible, he had to keep her safe.  Rey depended on him, and he was worried. She was afraid, and he didn’t understand why.  There was someone missing, a part of their whole, an empty place just as they’d begun to understand what all this might be.  He wasn’t sure he could do this; it always, it all went wrong. He was never enough.

 

And then Finn fell, and the water closed around him; it was happening.  The water would consume him, leaving him without name, or home, or memory.  He was tired and afraid and there were words he didn’t want to say but they insisted, so he said them anyway, or heard them.

 

_ “A living length of lightning arrow'd out/ _

_ Across the grasping rush, all bold and fair/ _

_ And pulled our Warrior from the greedy tumble/ _

_ To fall, to breathe, and living rise again” _

 

That was right.  He’d lived, and he still breathed, and...Finn coughed in the darkness in the Abbey of Saint John the Baptist, and choked on the thick, dark, green taste of river water.  He was in Colchester; they’d arrived late in the day, passing through an ancient stone gate that made Finn shiver with the weight of its history. He was shivering now, with what he’d felt, with cold.  But the feeling of arms around him, of another’s presence, he wasn’t sure whose, warmed him; and he slept again.

 

…

 

The guests would eat well tomorrow.  Phasma had been rambling in Chantry Wood for hours, checking traps and hunting mushrooms.  It was what she loved to do. The solitude and hard work and the forest’s gifts filled her soul; and it was all the better knowing that he would always be waiting for her, no matter how far she ranged, when she came back home.  Home was loud, and bright, and full of people enjoying each other’s company; it was a different kind of feeling, but there were jokes and songs and good food to be had. 

 

And when they’d cleaned up the last of it and the Moss and Ivy was empty again, they’d be alone together.  It was still a miracle, really; that he saw every part of her, who she really was, and still made it plain how much he loved her.  And she loved him, Armitage, and the simple life and the name he’d chosen, the man he’d decided to be; had always been, really, though he didn’t see it.  They’d built something, a beautiful, honest something, for themselves.

 

She almost stepped on them.  Only the natural caution trained into her through years of hunting and foraging (“poaching”, his voice teased in her head, yes, well, all right) kept her tread light and her approach silent.  Phasma cocked her head, studying the interesting discovery. Two of them, lost lambs if she’d ever seen one, were lying together at the foot of a sheltering tree. She was covered with a blanket, a luminous blue in the fading light.  He seemed to have wandered out from under the same blanket as they slept; but he’d come back to curl himself around her, protective, his cloaked shape like a shadow against her fairness.

 

There was a horse tethered nearby, a fine white stallion.  He warily opened one eye, but she held her hand under his nose to let him judge her scent.  The eye immediately closed again, as he seemingly decided that she was no threat. Phasma crouched, leaning closer to the two sleeping wanderers; there was something familiar here.  She knew this girl; this was the one pretending to be a monk, who’d tried crossing the Town Bridge at the height of summer’s floodwaters. Foolish, that. But where was the other monk, the fine-looking one who might or might not have known what this girl truly was?

 

Reymund, that was the name she’d given; Phasma wondered what it might really be.  And here she was, back on the other side of Guildford with an entirely different and equally intriguing Benedictine.  This one was tall and broad, with a fine head of dark hair that was currently hiding most of his face; a shame, no doubt.  Well. Wasn’t that enterprising of the girl? Phasma herself had once found a treasure, lost and sleeping in a wood; it was important to recognize when you’d made a find like that.  She smiled, remembering him, still in his armor, stretched out under a tree of his own; like a wayward angel, his hair the same brilliant color as the October leaves. It hadn’t been the first time they’d met, but it had been the most important; and her life had never been the same.

 

She rifled unrepentantly through their things; evidently he was a scribe, a good one.  Phasma smiled, holding a blank parchment scrap and considering the contents of her own pack.  They were going to be very surprised in the morning.

 

...  

 

They woke later than he’d hoped; morning was already well underway.  But she’d needed the rest. Ben went to go check the contents of their basket. They didn’t have much left of the food the Fates had given them, but there were the strawberries he’d found yesterday, and they should still have...he froze, hand on the basket’s lid.  It was full of food. There was salted meat, he wasn’t sure what, and cheese, and bread, and a bewildering variety of mushrooms. There was dried fruit in the basket, too. Ben closed the lid, wondering if he was seeing things; though frankly the things he saw were usually much more disturbing and less convenient than this.  

 

Confounded, he went automatically to fill their waterskin, only to find that someone already had.  He gave Exilium a sour look. “Some guard you are. You were supposed to tear strips off of anyone who came near here.”  The stallion blinked an innocent, round eye at him, made a soft, pleased sound, and went back to eating fodder that hadn’t been there the night before.  Ben took the waterskin with him, wondering whether he should pour out the contents and refill it. They’d been visited; but by who or what, he didn’t know.  He went back and opened the basket again, just to make sure nothing had changed. 

 

Rey was just stirring when he found the note.  She seemed a little better this morning for the rest.  Someone had helped themselves to his parchment, quill, and ink.  He’d read it five times, and it still made no sense, when he finally thought to show her.  “Our basket’s full of food. Does this mean anything to you?” He read the words to her, translated into Latin; she’d made some progress, but this was in English.

 

“Well met again!  I’ve left you some food; a bit of variety is a good thing, though you seem to have discovered that idea all on your own.  Be sure to give your first companion my greetings; I hope he’s well. I shan’t wake you, so introductions to this new Benedictine will have to wait.  If you pass this way again, bring them both! The Moss and Ivy. Enjoy; and don’t worry, I know my mushrooms. 

 

-Phasma”

 

Rey didn’t answer.  He hadn’t really thought she would, but she laughed, as though something about that note was highly amusing.  “I wish I had any idea what was so entertaining, but I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Do you think it’s okay to-”  He hadn’t quite finished the sentence before Rey had opened the basket. She had a wrinkled, dried apple in one hand and a chunk of salted meat in the other, from which she’d just taken a bite. 

 

Ben chuckled.  “Never mind. So you know what this means?”  He waved the note at her. Rey nodded, adding “...safe, I…”  She tried to continue, but that only started her coughing. By the time he’d given her some water and held onto her until the spasms stopped, she just shrugged and bit into the apple.  Ben got the general idea; he was getting used to being short on details. It was a very fine breakfast; perhaps better not to question what sort of kindly, literate faerie creature had left it for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD they shared a bed. OH MY GOD they had to ford a river. What an interesting outfit. What can I say? We love a Wet Ben, and so does Rey. Phasma thinks this is highly entertaining. She would.


	24. Flores et Flagrantia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flores et Flagrantia: Blooms and Blazes. In which memory "is too much with us, late and soon", as Wordsworth says about the world. In which there are flowers everywhere, and they have many meanings. In which Ben's past encroaches further as he approaches it. In which Rey dreams of fires, and learns about them upon waking. In which Brother Daniel looks out for Finn. And in which Finn must struggle with himself instead of his Abbot if he wants answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memories close in as the distance closes; not all of them are bad. Ben is learning when he needs memory and when he needs to fight it back for the sake of others. Neither is always successful. Rey is getting answers to a few things she didn't know, and some of them are bigger than she bargained for when she wondered. Daniel laments that people are so much more complicated than horses, and Finn is going to have to ask complicated questions when it would be so much simpler just to be angry.

The world seemed to be made of flowers.  Today they’d been riding through field upon field of green, with blossoms everywhere.  Ben had decided not to talk about where they were going or why; the surprise they’d discovered that morning made today’s travel seem more like a pleasure-jaunt or a picnic, and for a while he just wanted to pretend.  They rode through pines and ash and rowan, across heath and meadow, and Ben talked about the flowers. He pointed out daisies and forget-me-nots and heather, and told her which inks and paints he’d use to reproduce the butterflies that seemed to be everywhere.  Violets wove through the foliage under the trees, like purple stars.

 

Occasionally they stopped to rest, or to eat.  They _always_ stopped for strawberries.  At mid-day, tiny white trumpet-shaped flowers flourishing on a nearby bush sparked a dim memory.  Hannon, tall and strong, with his dark hair and crooked smile, was holding little Ben in his arms.  Papa showed him how to pull the stamen from the flower with his small hands and drink the nectar, which tasted like the honey from their hives.  Mama laughed and scolded that he’d be sick if he had too much. The memory was as sweet as the honeysuckle blooms he carefully plucked from the bush, and as bitter as ash on his tongue.  

 

His father’s smile turned to shadow, the feel of his big hands dropping away as the delicate scent of the flowers was wiped out by the dark, heavy reek of smoke.  Ben was determined to make today joyful for Rey, so he pushed back the tangle of remembrance and regret that came along with them for now, and held the delicate flowers still in his hand until it stopped trembling.  When he was back in the present again, he showed her how to take advantage of the blossoms’ sweetness. You should, always, when it came your way. She was gratifyingly pleased by the addition to their meal.

 

You couldn’t really keep yourself alive with honeysuckle blooms, not unless you were a hummingbird or a butterfly; but Ben felt as though the little things he could do for Rey, that he hoped to do for Finn in turn, might never be enough.  They’d left their whole lives for him. He drew butterflies for her, just sketches for now, but he noted the colors for later, and the patterns of their bright wings. Flowers joined them, all the ones they’d seen, speckled across the manuscript lines he’d written as he added what she’d said the day before.

 

They kept riding, through the layers of green and their rainbow of adornments.  Ben’s rambling about the sights, scents, and sounds around them trailed into silence, drowned out by the familiar companions of his nights. The memory that had tugged at him, and all that came with it, could no longer be kept at bay; and the closer they got to Salisbury, the more of Ben’s past crowded around them, almost visible out of the corners of his eyes. The smell of soot, the growl of flames, and his father’s char-streaked face occupied his senses as they traveled south and west.  Exilium grew fidgety and fractious, as though he could hear the echoes of equine pain, and he began to fight the halter. Ben’s knuckles were white, he noticed, on the reins, and his hands were cold.

 

Rey had been coughing more, as she tended to do as the day went on and she tired.  “Ben...stop.” He wasn’t sure what she meant, but he pulled back on the halter until the stallion reluctantly came to a halt.   “Down.” He dismounted and tethered Exilium, lifting Rey and setting her down on the grass. She patted the patch of grass next to her.  “Sit.” He sat, the sounds and scents still looming in his mind, though his eyes were on her face. She’d still had a strong hold on him, even when she was coughing, for now.  What did she need?

 

Ben was puzzled.  Her store of words was pretty limited right now, and it seemed to take a lot of energy to speak when the words were her own.  Why was she using them? “Do you need some water? Are you hungry?” She shook her head. “What is it?” He set the back of his hand against her cheek, then her brow.  She was still very warm, but it didn’t seem any worse. Exilium was snorting and stepping where he waited, testing the length of his tether.

 

Rey smiled, shook her head again, and reached out to take him by the hand.  She pulled him into her arms, drawing his head down onto her shoulder. The fingers of one hand tangled in his hair while her other hand patted his back.  “Shhhhhhhh.” Ben breathed a shuddering sigh against her arm as her hands and the lingering, sweet scent of honeysuckle and strawberries chased back the shadows.  

 

Her hair tickled his cheek, and bit by bit there was nothing but a meadow, a summer afternoon, and Rey.   He could hear the shifting of hooves and the agitated noises slow and stop, the stallion calming as Ben did.  When he could smell the sun-warmed grass again, she seemed to know, pushing him back to examine his face with an inquiring expression.

 

“Yes, it’s better.  Thank you.” He smiled for her, and she nodded in satisfaction.  He stood, and Rey held out her arms so they could begin again.

 

…

 

Lorcan looked into the mortar and sighed.  “I asked you to crush the cloves, Timothy, not powder them.”  The dust did smell lovely, but it wasn’t going to do him much good for what he was making.  He’d find a use for it. Nothing should go to waste.

 

“Sorry, Brother Lorcan.  I was thinking, and I forgot to stop.”  The boy looked mournful, his youthful voice quiet.  He’d been quiet, since his fall; since Brothers Ben and Finn and Reymund had gone.  Appetite, energy, enthusiasm: none of them were what they had been, as though he were dimmed.  Thinking before he acted would be wonderful, but too much time to think was a terrible burden for a boy his age.  Lorcan had a fair idea about the subject matter; he’d been uselessly brooding over it himself.

 

That was more than enough of that.  “Put down the pestle, Timothy. We’re done with remedies for today.  We’re going to find something a bit more diverting for you.” The boy just stared at him, not nearly as curious as he should be.   “ _Na ceithre rud is measa amú; tinneas cinn, béal seirbh, intinn bhuartha, agus póca folamh._ ”  Timothy’s brows drew together.  He mimicked a few of the sounds.

 

“That sounds funny, like you’d tie your tongue in knots trying to say it.  What does it mean?” Lorcan ignored the insult to his mother tongue, glad that Timothy was showing a spark of interest at last.  He took the mortar from Timothy and poured the ground cloves into a jar.

 

“It means:  The four least useful things; a headache, a bitter mouth, a worried mind, and an empty pocket.  Speaking of which, how’s your head, young man?” Timothy’s movements weren’t as careful as they’d been when he first woke, but there were dark circles under his eyes.  He certainly wasn’t ready to go back to the novices’ dormitorium yet, it was possibly the loudest and least restful place to be found at Saint Augustine’s.

 

The boy shrugged.  “I don’t know, it’s all right.”  He fidgeted with a loose thread in the sling that held his arm steady.  God spare him from the ambivalent answers of children. Half the time it was more difficult to diagnose them than to treat them.  “My stomach hurts” had to be Lorcan’s least favorite sentence in the world. And when it was their heads, accuracy became even more important.  Well, this would make a decent trial of how Timothy was faring.

 

“How would you like to come with me to the stables?”  No, moving his head was no longer a problem, if the way it flew up from contemplating his sling was any indication.  A raised finger forestalled a response until Lorcan was finished. “There will be absolutely no horseback riding of any kind; I want to be perfectly clear about that.  You can’t afford to be dropped on your head again, and you’re not quite well enough yet for any of that.” Oh, that was a perfect illustration of disappointment if he’d even seen one.  “But you may visit the horses, and even brush them, so long as you don’t overexert yourself, of which…” he turned his finger to point at himself, “...I will be the judge.”

 

The boy was nodding,  some of the shine back in his eyes.   “Could we? I bet they miss me; and if I’m gone too long, they might forget who I am.  That would be _terrible_.  I’d have to start all over, getting them to trust me, and explaining that I’m the right sort of person. They all trust me, mostly, now.  Except for…” He looked down at his arm.

 

“Well, if you’d leapt onto my back without asking, I don’t know that I’d’ve been happy about it either, Timothy.  That was a bit rude, wasn’t it?” He smiled so the boy would know he was teasing. “I don’t know if that particular beast trusts anyone, aside from perhaps the abbot.  And he isn’t there, remember? He’s off with...well. Never mind. Up with you, then, and let’s be going.” Timothy scrambled to comply.

 

Lorcan chatted with Dismus while Timothy happily patted and brushed and talked to the horses; not, at least at first, about what was weighing on both their minds.  Octavius joined the fun, weaving between the various sets of hooves and growling playfully as he tugged on the other end of whatever Timothy might be holding, back end furiously wagging.  “Octavius, I need that! I can’t very well brush without a brush, can I?” His protests fell on deaf ears.

 

The pup was growing at an alarming rate, but then he dined well keeping the stables free of rats and mice.  Then there were the occasional bits of chicken and other treats Caius was prone to slipping him when he thought no one would notice, and the ones Radbod gave him in turn when he thought Caius was looking the other way.  Really, the way everyone spoiled him, it was a miracle Octavius wasn’t round as an orange, rolling his way about the place.

 

They watched Timothy, and talked about Abbot Luke’s plan for the stables.  It wasn’t a bad one, really; it just would have been nice to have more notice.  Lorcan knew it had been as much an excuse to get out from under the Abbey’s roof as a plan to improve the place, but that was a confidence, part of what it meant to be his old friend’s _anamchara_ , and it was no one else’s business.  

 

“This was a fine idea, Lorcan.  They’re good for him, the horses. And the donkey, evidently.”  Dismus chuckled. They’d heard Timothy’s laugh more in the last forty minutes than Lorcan had heard in the last four days. He and Timothy had diverted past the refectory for some carrots and Timothy was feeding them to Bastian, careful to keep his fingers out of the way. The shaggy beast had been unhappy, Dismus told him; missing Finn and Reymund, no doubt.  Lorcan wondered how one could tell. You couldn’t even see Bastian’s eyes most of the time; he was like a carpet on four legs.

 

Timothy was well occupied teasing the knots out of the donkey’s coat while Bastian blew the boy’s hair out of his eyes and lipped at his pockets for more treats.  “Bastian, that’s string, not food! You can’t eat that. Well, you shouldn’t, anyway. Have you been chewing the water bucket? I know you miss Brother Finn, but I don’t think even donkeys are supposed to eat those.   _Shhhhhh_ … Listen, if you behave yourself and stop chewing bits of the stable, I’ll see if I can find you an apple, all right?”  Bastian nodded, for all the world as though he understood.

 

“You can keep bringing him out here, if you like.  Truth be told, I could use the help.” Dismus looked frazzled.  Between the regular appearance of guests at the Abbey and all of the work Daniel normally performed, that was no wonder.  “Don’t worry, I won’t let him do anything too strenuous.” He frowned, and called over to the boy in question, who had moved on to brushing one of the draft horses.  “If he won’t put his head down, just leave him be, I’ll finish brushing him later. You know better than to use that arm, Timothy.”

 

“Yes, Brother Dismus.”  There was no apology whatsoever in the sound of that, but he was sharing a conspiratory-sounding giggle with Goliath, which could only be an improvement. “Brother Lorcan, I know you said I can’t ride, but if I stayed very still, could we let Bastian pull the donkey-cart?  I think he’s bored.” Yes, of course, it must be _Bastian_ who was bored.  Well played, boy.  Timothy gave a sidelong, hopeful glance at both of them as he worked on the parts of Goliath he could reach.

 

Staying still was not Timothy’s best skill, but it would at least take some effort, or talent, to fall out of the donkey cart.  “Yes, Timothy, I think that could be arranged, so long as someone goes with you.” Lorcan smiled at the other man. “I know you’ll be careful with Timothy, Dismus.  It’s why you aren’t the novice-master; you’d worry about them too much to be properly stern. You hovered over Benedictus like a broody hen when he came here.” Dismus  looked worried again, now that Lorcan had gone and reminded him that he should be. Curse his wayward mouth. _Is minic a bhris béal duine a shrón._ Many a time a man’s mouth broke his nose.

 

A frown looked positively out of place on Dismus.  “I just wish I had some idea _why_ he’d leave, without telling anyone he was going, and take that young man with him.  Barely out of the novitiate, that one. It couldn’t have been simple, if he took a horse.  But then nothing ever is, with Benedictus. And of all the mounts he could have chosen, to take Exilium!”  Well, Lorcan had a decent idea about why that might be; the stallion was always housed alone. And now, about why he’d gone, and for whom.   “I just don’t understand. And that’s a shame. He’s one of our brothers, Lorcan. We should understand him better.”

 

That was the plain truth.  He mentally kicked himself again for not doing a better job with that.  The trouble with keeping your mouth closed about everyone’s secrets is that then no one knew exactly how trustworthy you were.   _Is binn béal ina thost._ A silent mouth is sweet, they said.  Maybe it was. But silence when there should be trust, when someone needed help, was bitter.  If there’d been more talk, then Lorcan would know the _where_ of Benedictus’ leaving; and that was the piece he was missing.  He didn’t imagine Dismus would know any more than Lorcan himself did about why Ben avoided the infirmarium, as though it might be the source of ill-health rather than the mending of it.

 

Lorcan patted his brother on the back.  “You’re right, Dismus. We can only try to remedy that when he returns to us, when they both do.”   _When_ , he said, not _if_.  That was important.  “Until then, the best we can do is make sure that the rest of our brothers, and those who may someday be,” he waved a hand at Timothy, who was scolding Atlas over the tangles in his mane, “know that they can always trust us with their troubles.”

 

Lorcan squinted at the sun.  “Now. I’ll leave him with you for an hour or two, shall I?  I’ve got to go make some...repairs to my stores. Timothy there is a bit ham-fisted with the mortar and pestle, I’m afraid.  Send him back to me if he’s tired, or he gets too quiet, and I’ll see about sending another novice or two out to help you as well.”   Dismus nodded and grinned, which was much more like him, as he listened to the dressing-down Atlas was receiving. Timothy was lecturing him about thinking before he acted, so he didn’t snarl himself so when he rolled about on his back.  He knew that everyone had their own circuitous path to wisdom; perhaps a word with the Almighty about straightening Timothy’s a little.

 

…

 

She’d heard the sounds, in his head, and hadn’t liked them one bit.  Something about the flowers, the wonderful sweet ones, had filled him with screams and smoke.  Ben had tried to keep it from her, but she’d known. That he didn’t want to worry her was just as sweet as the nectar he’d shown her how to taste, but even if there wasn’t much Rey could do for him right now, all hot and cold and unstuck from her moorings, she could help with this.  She could help make the soot and the noises of pain go away.

 

He went back to talking to her when they started again, about the flowers and the birds and butterflies; about his work and the beautiful pictures he meant to create; and that was much better.  Rey felt better, when she could let the words flow past her, like the sea past a ship as it sailed, buoying the vessel on its current as the wind helped it to fly.

 

She must be confused again.  Was that the flex of the horse’s back as they rode, or the movement of water?  Wind in the trees, or the noise of spray from the bow? She opened her eyes to look around Ben’s shoulder.  Everything was blue and rippling. Rey concentrated, to take in the meaning of what Ben was saying here in the grassy sea.  Bluebells. He said they were bluebells. Had there ever been so many flowers in one place? They bent in the breeze like waves.  She should tell him about the _Malak_ ; about how beautiful it had all been.  

 

…

 

Ben didn’t think Rey was really hearing most of what he said.  That was all right. It helped keep Exilium calm; and himself too, he supposed.  It gave him something else to do besides think dangerous thoughts. She sat straighter, with kind of a “hmmmm?” sound, when they rode into a seemingly endless field of bluebells.  There’d certainly been plenty of flowers today, but this many, and all the same kind, was something sort of magical; like a strange, floral lake. He wondered what it would be like to lie among the blooms and look up through all that blue; a little like being underwater, with shafts of sunlight slanting through from above.  He’d seen that in a dream.

 

“ _The Angel's angel, lash'd with wind and storm,/_

_imperil'd, by the Warrior was sav'd,/_

_Surmounting dread; when Tempest howl'd its fury/_

_From distant dreams the Poet shelter'd both._ ”

 

Wait, he knew this part of the story. His dream, floating under the hull of a ship, there in the deep.  He’d had another dream, filled with...Tempest. His feet steady and dry on the deck, the afterimage of lightning branded in the dark, he’d put his arms around them.  The Angel, saved by the Warrior. And...sheltered both. He _had_ been there?  He felt chilled, thinking about how close they’d come to being swept away.  But that was followed by the warm thought that he had kept them both safe.

 

A soft gasp.  “You…?”

 

He nodded.  “I was there.  I don’t know what either of you were doing out in that, but the storm couldn’t touch me.  I was dry. I thought it was a dream. I fell asleep at prayers.” He laughed. “Daniel woke me up with the aspergillum.  Cold water to the face is very effective. Dread...oh! That’s why. When I read to Finn, the part of the Odyssey about the storm at sea and how terrifying it was, he...it was because he knew, already, what that must be like.  I wish I’d known. But I’m glad I could help the two of you, for once.” And the illustration he’d drawn, it had been a memory? He should say something when they were together again. No one should have to live in silence with a memory like that.

 

Rey’s hand brushed across his cheek, the back of his neck, and his hair.  “...thank you.” Ben felt himself shiver, even as a rush of heat went through him.  It had been nothing, really; it wasn’t as though he could ever have let them fall.

 

…

 

The priory at Creeting St. Mary wasn’t especially remarkable.  It was worn, maybe even a little run-down, but it looked comfortable; more like a home than a church.  Finn didn’t think they’d have much room, but he could make himself comfortable anywhere, even the stables.  Perhaps especially the stables. No one in the stables wanted to know what was in his satchel, or whether he was descended from kings, or what had frightened him the night before. The horses didn’t ask any questions and Finn didn’t have to lie to them.

 

Abbot Luke had been thinking along the same lines, it seemed.  He gave Finn a speculative look as they rode toward the church gate.  “Will we need to arrange to have you separately housed, Brother Finn? I’m given to understand that the dormitorium was once again disturbed last night, in Colchester.”  Luke frowned at him, looking Finn over from head to toe. “It may be that the infirmarium would be best. I’ve told Brother Benedictus in the past that he should see Brother Lorcan.”   Luke _shrugged_ , damn him.  

 

“My nephew is also prone to nightmares, as a result of...well.” He stopped himself, brows drawn down; he looked embarrassed, or uncomfortable.  “I thought perhaps Lorcan might be of some help with his...troubles.” He turned his gaze to the church. One of the brothers, presumably whoever served as their porter, had looked out at the arrivals, then gone back inside. Perhaps to get the others?  Daniel was shaking his head, perturbed, as Luke stiffly dismounted to walk his horse ahead toward the building.

 

Finn was speechless.  He slid down onto the grass, mechanically, leading the mare.  The endless, hopeless, helpless war of Ben’s nights, reduced to advice on how to avoid bothering the brothers hosting them for the night.  Prone to nightmares? That was...that… How could Ben possibly ask Brother Lorcan for help? How could he ask anyone with a secret like the one he’d carried? And Abbot Luke was treating the imperilment of Ben’s _soul_ as though it were an inconvenience.  But then that seemed to be, for the most part, what he thought about Ben himself.  Finn could feel his shoulders knot as he stood staring at the abbot.

 

His breathing quickened, hands involuntarily balling into fists on the reins as they walked their mounts through the gate. The words were piling up on Finn’s tongue and soon he would have no choice but to spill them from his lips, but he’d already been reprimanded once in the few short days since they’d left Canterbury.   Abbot Luke was looking forward toward the brothers ready to greet the new visitors, but Daniel was giving Finn an odd look, at once wary and concerned. The scene before him wavered, as though obscured by heat rising from the sands of a desert. There was a kind of growling noise, from somewhere. Rowan, the mare Finn had been riding, was becoming skittish.  He took a deep breath, meaning to speak to the mare. The angry noise stopped. He’d been making it.

 

“Abbot Luke, why don’t Brother Finn and I take the horses to the stable so the brothers here will be free to speak with you?  Brother Finn, I believe Hazel may have picked up a stone on our way here; you can help me to make sure she hasn’t been lamed.”  Daniel took hold of one of Finn’s arms, directing him with some force toward the mare he himself had been riding. Finn was grateful, somewhere under the fury he was desperately trying to suppress, for the help.  He took Hazel’s reins along with Rowan’s, as Daniel collected Willow, the third of their trio of mares, from Abbot Luke.

 

Finn could hear Daniel inquiring as to the location of the priory’s stable. He kept his head down under the pretext of murmuring to the two mares, his face pressed into Rowan’s side, until it was time to walk the horses to their lodgings.

 

They were brushing the horses and seeing to their fodder when Daniel spoke again.  “Brother Finn.” Finn glanced at him, calmer here with the horses and a task at hand.  “I can tell Abbot Luke that you need to stay here, with Hazel, to see to her care, after we’ve eaten and through the night.”  He held up a hand. “There’s no stone; it was a pretext. You should be comfortable enough, and it will stop the talk if you don’t wake up half the priory.   I don’t know exactly what’s happening here, but I could see you needed a moment away from Abbot Luke.” He grimaced in helpless sympathy. “Neither of them, Abbot Luke or Brother Benedictus, is good at talking, or listening.  I’m not much for talking either, so I’m only going to say this once.”

 

He hung a bucket of oats for Willow.  “Our abbot does well enough when it’s Abbey business, but when it comes to anything else…”  He shrugged. “I know Brother Benedictus falls asleep at prayers more often than not; which makes sense, if it’s anything like it was when he got here.    But he won’t _talk_ to us.  Especially me, I’m always with the horses.  Or to Abbot Luke, or to Brother Lorcan. If he’ll talk to you, so much the better.  And if you want to know where it all started, _you’re_ going to have to talk to the abbot.  Talk, not shout, not strangle…”

 

Daniel eyed Finn over Willow’s back.  Finn reluctantly laughed at the image.  “Abbot Luke would be best able to explain.”  He shook his head. “This is why I work with the horses.  It’s so much easier to talk to them.” Finn stared at him, but Daniel had nothing more to say.  Once they’d seen to the mares, they headed into the priory in silence for the evening meal. Somehow, though, he felt better.

 

…

 

They’d still have light, for a while, it was summer.  But Rey was obviously done for the day, and Ben was sore and weary himself; so they stopped, still in the great wood that had stretched through their day’s ride.  The cough kept getting worse, wrenching at her more often as time passed. She didn’t even have the energy to eat, which worried Ben a great deal; he thought perhaps if he cut small bites of some of the things their mysterious benefactor had left them, he could tempt her to have something, at least, before they slept.  He had nothing with which to do the job, though. He knew the contents of his bag like the back of his hand; but Ben hadn’t gone hunting through Rey’s things, not since he’d scooped everything off the guest room floor in Canterbury and grabbed her bag as they left.

 

“Rey?”  She tilted her head in his direction from where she sat against a tree, not even bothering to open her eyes.  “Would it be all right if I went through your bag to see what’s in there?” She nodded. Ben carried the bag over to the tree and sat beside her, searching through it to see if there was anything useful.  Rey leaned her head on his shoulder. She was definitely warmer now. That probably wasn’t good.

 

He found two sets of boys’ clothes, trousers and shirts.  Ben thought he would very much like to see her in these, which sent a flush from his chin to the tips of his ears.  So somewhere before she’d been a monk, Rey had been dressed as a boy. She had...those were sewing things, he guessed.  There was a wide-brimmed hat stuffed into the bottom of the bag, and a hard round shape that proved to be a pilgrim badge in the shape of a scallop shell.  Scallops...those kept appearing in his work, and hers. Ben knew what the scallop badge meant, though he’d never seen one himself.

 

And...yes.  There was a sheathed knife.  It was tangled in the strings of her belt pouch, which he’d thrown into the bag with the rest.  As he untangled the two, the belt pouch opened. Something soft and blue brushed against Ben’s fingers.  Curious, he pulled the slip of blue fabric free of the belt pouch. Silk. His mother had had a few pieces of silk; they weren’t easy to get, but he remembered how it felt to touch it.  Unfurled, the length of silk proved to be a ribbon of deep blue, embroidered along its length with flowers in purple and white.

 

“Rey?  What’s this?”  She reluctantly opened her eyes to look.  A sweet, sleepy smile and hum of contentment were his only answer at first; something about this ribbon made her very happy.  This was followed by the now-familiar faraway look before she spoke.

 

_And as they slept/_

_Came flowers in profusion from the rocks/_

_Purple and gold and alabaster blooms/_

_To lift the spirit and delight the eyes._

 

_The Angel pluck'd the sweetness from the earth/_

_Whose petals lay all in encircl'd rows/_

_And made of it a gift, an offering/_

_The Warrior look'd upon it, and was glad._

 

_When they had reach'd the cool and verdant land,/_

_The Warrior return'd the gift again/_

_With petals all in violet and in white/_

_Secret on silk, and scattered on blue sea._

 

He was glad to know their travels hadn’t only been fear and danger.  She’d given flowers to Finn, and he’d given her...this? He liked the idea that they’d found little ways to bring each other joy.  And if flowers made them both happy, that was something he could do; another way he could thank them both. At least, he could thank Rey, for now.  First, though, he cut bits of the food they’d been given. Her eyes were closed again. “Can you eat some of this? I know you’re tired, but you still need to eat and drink.”  Rey opened her eyes and nodded, but she didn’t move. So Ben fed her himself, a morsel at a time, and helped her to drink some water. She seemed a little stronger, when he was finished.  

 

“I’m going to get our camp together for the night.  Rest a little, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

Rey nodded.  “...soon.”

 

Fodder was everywhere, Exilium would have enough here to eat all on his own; still, best to gather a pile of grass for the stallion so he wasn’t tempted to eat any of the flowers.  Ben wasn’t certain what was safe for horses to eat aside from grass. Bracken was easy to find. The tasks went faster, Ben found, as he got used to them; and the belt-knife was a help, now that he’d actually thought to search for one.  This left him time to hunt for some less practical things; things that reminded him of that bit of silk, there in her belt-pouch just for the beauty of it.

 

When he got back to their camp, Rey was sitting up straight, away from the tree where she’d been leaning, and peering anxiously into the trees.  He dropped the fodder where he’d tethered Exilium and carried the armful of bracken over to her. Ben set down the bedding, arranging it into a pallet for them, and sat beside her.  “What’s the matter?”

 

Rey shook her head, the worry smoothed out of her face as she leaned her head on his arm.  Had he been gone too long? “I’m sorry. I just wanted to…” He reached into his own bag for the things he’d gathered as he worked.  “Here.”

 

He didn’t know what kind of flowers she liked, so he’d gathered the ones that made him think of her, and of the three of them.  Purple blooms had been scattered under the trees; he thought they were orchids, delicate arrangements of sharp-edged petals, dangling and rising from the flower’s center, speckled with darker shades of the same color and rosy at their hearts.  The second one he’d found was similar, blooms clustered in conical shapes and spotted with white.

 

They reminded Ben of ladies’ skirts; but more importantly, of the blossoms embroidered on the ribbon he’d found.  A fragment of remembered conversation surfaced as he picked them. It was true, the closer he got to Salisbury, the more the past was with him.

 

_His father’s voice , as he set the flowers he’d brought home to Mother, from his latest trip, in a vase.  "Orchids are like women, kid." There was a snort, and a choking noise.  "Not a word, Lando!" A faint guffaw was the only response. "They look delicate, and beautiful, soft to the touch. And they are. But they're also strong as hell, and they stay with you longer if you treat them like you should." He looked over his shoulder at the sound of Mother's voice.  "You make sure you're better at that last part than I am, son." Ben was mystified. _

 

Ben had added yellow flowers; he liked the contrast of the warm sunlight color.  Mostly, though, he’d noticed that this flower always held three blooms aloft; close together, as though they might be leaning on each other or sharing a confidence.  In every case there were three. Between and around them were a few blossoms he’d chosen for their scent.

 

The last was his favorite, though, and he couldn’t wait to show Rey.  Hunting for more of the tiny wild strawberries she loved, he wondered at first why bees would be busy with fruit when they should be attending to the flowers -- until he’d realized that this _was_ a flower, cunningly shaped just as though it were the fuzzy hindquarters of a honeybee.  He’d known when he saw it that it would delight her.

 

Rey’s mouth rounded in a soft “oh”.  She gave Ben a questioning look. “Of course they’re for you.  I just thought you might like them. Look.” He pointed out the insect impostor.  “I really thought it was a bee, at first.” She laughed, brushing her fingers over the furry “legs” and “body”.  And they were; he hadn’t been able to resist touching it either. “These are orchids, I think, I’m not sure. But I thought you’d like the purple.”  She nodded, and buried her face in the bouquet, inhaling the scents and rubbing her cheek on the petals as though she were a cat.

 

Her voice was different this time, as she looked into nothing over his shoulder; rich with an undercurrent of laughter, as if she were sharing a private joke.

 

“ _A man,/_

_Our pilgrim mus'd, who brings a woman flow'rs/_

_Comparing the beloved and the bloom/_

_Thinks also of her petals and his stem/_

_The blossoms worn, in answer, speak the same._ ”

 

What did that mean...It took him longer than it should have, but there were a few passages he’d read, here and there.  “That’s not...I didn’t...I just…” The deepening blush on her cheeks, already flushed with fever, matched the burn he felt flaring through his own face.

 

She was shaking her head, one hand extended as though to forestall any further response. Rey seemed as surprised and embarrassed at the words she’d said as he was.  “I know,” she rasped, in her own increasingly difficult words, “I...wasn’t...I love them.” She reached to touch his cheek, then raised the blossoms back to her face, eyes shining.  Ben rummaged through their basket until he found the bark container their Fates had made. He added some water and put the flowers in it. They wouldn’t last forever, but this way she could enjoy them a little longer.  Orchids were strong, and they stayed with you longer if you treated them right.

 

Ben wondered what the story behind Rey’s words might be.  Something else to ask, when she was better, when they were all together.  For now, he would write whatever she said; whether it was important for their future, the purpose they now seemed to share, or just part of the story that had led Finn and Rey here, he wanted to make sure nothing was forgotten.  So he wrote about a storm at sea, a gift of petals, and the words that had turned them both scarlet.

 

Flowers bloomed everywhere on the page as he wrote; orchids and triple yellow blossoms, bluebells and a masquerade of bees.  And off to one side, where he’d left room, a portrait began to make itself known. The subject was familiar; not seen for a dozen years, except in his dreams...and nightmares.  Ben drew him as he’d appeared in memory earlier in the day, strong and gentle, laughing at something Ben’s mother had said as he held a single, tiny honeysuckle bloom in his hands.  

 

There had been a scar on his chin.  Ben hadn’t taken the time, while he had the chance, to ask what caused it.  He suspected that someone, along the way, had broken Hannon’s nose at least once. Smile lines had already written themselves around his mouth and eyes, deepening as he laughed, and gray had begun to thread itself through the disorder of his dark hair.   He would never finish going gray. But here, he was captured in a sunny moment, in Ben’s young eyes; happy, healthy, and in every way at home.

 

Ben smiled at the drawing.  A startled gasp turned his attention to Rey, who was staring at the picture of his father in recognition and confusion.  She raised her eyes to his, her face full of questions, then shook her head in wordless frustration as she began to cough. That was definitely getting worse.  When Rey could breathe again, more or less, she waved a hand at the portrait, but nothing emerged when she tried to speak but a yawn. Ben could feel that she was fighting her exhaustion.  He put the parchment aside and took her hands. “It’s all right, you don’t have to worry about that just now. I don’t know how you…it doesn’t matter. Not right now. You need sleep. There’ll be time to talk.”  

 

She nodded.  They both stretched out on the bracken.  Rey brought her face to the bouquet of flowers next to her on the grass to breathe in its scent again, then laid her head on his shoulder as he spread the quilt over them both.  

 

…

 

The stable was burning.  Finn stood before it with a bucket in his hands, but no matter how far he walked, he couldn’t reach the flames.  Terrified horses were shrieking. He heard hooves battering the doors of their stalls and great bodies lurching against the walls, but he was stuck standing yards away from the building and his knees wouldn’t seem to work.  The horses! They couldn’t help themselves, they needed him. They needed someone to fight for them, to fight the flames. The screams were high and terrified, and in them Finn could hear what they would be saying if they had the words, _we don’t understand, this hurts, why is it happening to us?  Help us, please!_

 

Finn looked down at his hands  They didn’t belong to him, bigger and paler than his own. He’d never smelled a stable afire, never heard these sounds in his waking life, but his heart ached to go to the poor beasts, to help.  He felt as though he might fall. Was someone else dreaming this dream? They must know every sight and sound, smell and sensation as Finn was feeling them now. He knew whose nightmare this must be; and with the thought came other thoughts not his own, flitting through as though he might have been thinking them.

 

 _This is my fault.  This is how it started.  I hid when I should have been seen, I kicked over the lantern, I did this._ The high, clear voice of a boy, but Finn knew the voice by the pain it carried.  The next thought came, in the deep resonant tones he’d come to cherish while they told him the story of Odysseus, of another’s pain.    _It will keep happening, the flames will keep taking.  This is why I should be alone. No matter how many times it happens, I can’t save him.  Father..._ A flash of a crooked smile and kind eyes, familiar though he’d never really seen them. _I can’t save anyone.  Even me._ That wasn’t right.   Finn should tell him that wasn’t right.

 

He needed to wake, to get out of bed, so he could fight this dream too, and help in any way that he could.  Rey couldn’t be with him, he didn’t wake next to her any more, didn’t open his eyes to her smile. He needed to wake to get to…

 

“ **BEN!?** ”

 

“Ben.  Wake up.”  Finn sat up with a shudder, scrambling forward on hands and knees to get to...there was no one here.   He couldn’t get to Ben, back at the Abbey of Saint Augustine, back in the room they shared, and pull him out of this nightmare.  He would have to hope Rey could get to Ben, somehow, that she would let him know that it was all right, that he was known, that he wasn’t alone.  Not like Finn was himself, just now. He couldn’t stop trembling, full of worry and the need to _know_ , to understand why Ben was plagued with horses and terror and smoke.  He was going to have to ask. There in the darkness of the stable at Creeting Saint Mary’s, which was not on fire, Finn stood and buried his face in Rowan’s warm side, and wept.

 

…

 

The stable was burning.  The tack shed was burning?  Rey didn’t know. The building and the fire kept changing.  But she knew this vision, this nightmare. This was where they’d lost him. Why?  She still didn’t understand. Some things were different. Finn wasn’t here. He’d been with her, when she’d seen this.  That was better, maybe. He didn’t have to watch the horses. Finn loved horses. The fire piled on fire, that was the same.  And _he_ was the same, his eyes full of need.  No, he was different. Younger. Smaller.  A boy.

 

The man, in the stable, he was the same too.  His face, she’d seen his face today, in the flowers.  Why was he so important? Because he meant something to Ben.  That was different too; he wasn’t just their scribe, even though he was. He was Ben now, her Ben, their Ben, and he watched the flames, his young face resigned, as though he knew what would happen.  He still wanted to save the man in the flames, he still _reached_ , he still cried NO! and when he turned back to look at her his eyes were just as lost and hopeless as they’d been when she looked into the fire at Bath.  And over everything was the shadow of massive, dark wings.

 

But this time he spoke to her, the boy, Ben.  There were traces of the man he would become, but he was just a boy, and in so much pain, and the shaking of his narrow shoulders broke her heart.  He dropped his face into his hands. His voice, when it came, was light, and clear, and calm, but his lips didn’t move, mouth still closed as he cried.   _“This was my fault.  This is how it started.  I disobeyed. This is how it got to us.  This is how I killed him.”_  The wings spread wider, and the fires drew together.

 

A brush of air, like a moth’s wing, and there was Ben.  Her Ben, whose smiles and laugh and gentle hands she had come to know, was walking past her.  But he wasn’t really there. He was made of mist and fog, a ghost Rey couldn’t grasp as he went forward with faltering steps and a bucket in his hands. He wasn’t masked to her, not any more.   His beautiful face was determined, as though he thought he might be able to keep it from happening again, if only he weren’t so afraid. The boy shook his head. He knew better.

 

And he spoke to her, his voice made of mist and fog like the rest of him, a whisper in her ear even as his knees began to buckle and the water spilled.  The ground wasn’t wet where it fell, because this wasn’t something he could change. He looked at the man in the flames with longing, as though it healed him and hurt him all at once to see that face.    _“This is my fault,”_ he said, his voice hollow, _“This is why it’s happening.  I’m weak. This is how it gets to me.  This is why I don’t deserve to be saved.”_ He flinched from the flames, but he tried to keep going, to reach and protect.  And the shadow of huge black wings fell over him, and he started to fall.

 

A whisper from nowhere, from shadow and a rustle of great sooty pinions. She hadn’t known those wings then, but she knew them now.  A distorted voice, a susurration of feathers, and a man trapped inside something he didn’t want to be. _"This is what may be. The end, the now, the beginning. This is how the story goes."_  These inky quills could only fan the flames.  The beams began to crack, the ghost to fall, the boy to stumble, and Rey had to _choose_.

 

How could she choose when they were one?  But her Ben was a ghost; he had never really been here, in this place at this time, he was somewhere else, she understood now, seeing things that couldn’t be changed.  The wings were a phantom, a warning; the dark general she’d seen in her dreams, a thing that couldn’t be reached. All that was here and now, in the place where the stable was burning, was the boy; so as the roof fell and the sparks flew, she sheltered the boy, her Ben someday, with her wings. The flames grasped and taunted, and the kind man, the important man, the beginning of all of this, was once again lost, he and his crooked smile. The ghost vanished, like a candle snuffed, with no word of what had become of him, just as he had when they’d lost him.  The shadow lifted, as though it were finished here. And when Rey unfurled her wings again, there was no one inside.

 

Back in Bath she’d echoed him, as Finn had echoed him, the three of them calling NO! But now was different, now she knew him, and as she stood amidst all the burning, shivering with cold, her arms empty, she called him to come to her, she summoned him with his _name_.

 

**“BEN!!!!”**

 

…

 

He’d heard it, the growl of the flames and the crash of collapse, as they slept.  He couldn’t see it and he couldn’t wake, but he’d _heard_ and he’d smelled it, the smoke and char and sweat and the wet smell of futility, of the buckets from the stream that wouldn’t be enough.  He didn’t have to see, really, he’d seen it hundreds on hundreds of times in his dreams. He felt it, like a furnace, a forge, like he imagined Hell itself must be, endless searing heat and the promise of cool relief that never came.

 

Ben heard himself, he thought it must be himself, saying it was his fault, that this was why, and he knew that was true, but that was nothing new, he’d always known that, there was no need to tell himself again.  He heard his father’s voice. He was smiling, Ben could tell just from the sound of it, he was always smiling as Ben saw him in the flames. “ _Ben.  Wake up_ .”  He heard Finn’s voice. He was crying, Ben could tell just from the sound of it, he was crying as he listened to the flames.  “ _Ben.  Wake up._ ”  He heard Rey’s voice. She was frightened, he could tell just from the sound of it, she was frightened as she stood before the flames.  

 

**“BEN!!!!”**

 

The scream was astonishingly loud, there in the quiet rustle of the woods at night.  Ben sat bolt upright in the dark to find Rey awake and shaking, her arms holding nothing, beside him on their pallet in the grass under the trees.  “Rey? Rey! What is it?” Her eyes were staring with terror, he wasn’t even sure she was seeing him yet, then she focused on his face and a huge sob wrenched its way out of her slender frame and she beat her fists against his shoulder.

 

“You...left…us.  A fire...two fires?...and you were GONE.”  He could feel the enormous effort it was taking for each word, but she kept going, desperate to communicate something.  “Who...the man...in the flames? Days...with nothing...thought you...burned... or lost...or DEAD!” Spent, she sagged against his chest, and he bundled her into his arms as though the more of her he touched, the more he could convince her that he was real, he was _here_.

 

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was...there was a fire, and I...I was afraid.  I was afraid it was all happening again. I was afraid someone would get hurt, would be _killed_ , and I was afraid it might be you, both of you. I didn’t even know you yet, but I couldn’t bear the thought that you might be hurt because of me, so I went...I closed myself off, from everything, I went inside, where I was alone.  I thought that would keep everyone _safe_ , if it was just me, alone.”  She looked at him in confusion.  

 

Of course, he remembered, she didn’t know about any of this, about the fires, about his past.  It was hard to remember, when they’d shared so much, that there were still so many things unsaid between them.  “I can tell you about all of it. I can try. Sometimes I...I’ll try. But you should sleep.” There was an almost violent shake of her head.  He could certainly understand that. Sometimes there was just not going to be any more sleep. “Now it is, then.” He shifted them both back toward the tree behind them, so she could lean back against his shoulder and chest.  

 

“I disobeyed.”  He felt her shiver and wondered why.  “I was twelve. Uncle Luke, that’s what he was to me then, kept telling my family that I was meant for the Church.  When he would visit, he wanted me to learn the canonical hours, to pray with him.” He shrugged, knowing she could feel it.  “I never did have much discipline.” She made a protesting noise.

 

“If I had, I wouldn’t have snuck away to the stables,”  he could feel his heart start to pound and a bead of cold sweat trickle down the side of his face, “to draw.  I was drawing horses, if you believe that. I loved them, the way they moved, the flow of their manes and tails, so beautiful.”  His breath was beginning to hitch, but Ben ignored it, because he’d be damned if he was going to start this story twice. Damned...he probably would be.  “I wanted to show my m-mother how I could make each one look just like themselves.”

 

Rey turned in his arms to sit looking up at him, her hands touching his face.  She’d been able to keep the noises and the smells and the shadows away, but this time he needed them to tell the story.  He captured her hands in his and held on to them. “It was dark when I started, so I br- I brought a lantern. I got lost in it, the work, like I almost always do.”  She was nodding; of course, she’d seen him at work. “When Padraig…” He hadn’t said that name in 12 years. “When the stable-boy came to start work in the morning I was still there.  I didn’t want to be seen.” He knew his words weren’t entirely clear, not any more; but she seemed to understand.

 

“I was in a hurry to leave, but I was careful with the pens and the ink and the parchment.  I knew it was important to take care with my tools.” It was hard to hear himself talk now, with the noises.  Ben couldn’t really tell whether the tears wetting his face were getting in the way. “I wasn’t careful...wi...with the lantern.  I for...forgot all about it, with the dawn and the fear of getting caught. And I k-kicked it over, I must ha...have, when I left.”  The noises and smells and heat were twisting his mouth, and his words, and his heart.

 

She was crying again, shaking her head as if she knew what came next.  He ran his thumbs over and over across her hands, to help him think so he could finish it.  “It burned, the stable. It didn’t...it was so _fast_ .  I h...I helped, I tried.  I joined the fight, with the b-buckets of water, and they didn’t know that I’d done this.  He...he was _p-proud_ of me.  You saw him?  The man I was drawing...today?”  It was hard to breathe. It was hard for her too, Rey was coughing, he shouldn’t worry her.  But she’d asked, as though it had hurt her not to know. “My...he’s...he was…”

 

He had to stop for a moment and lay his head down on her shoulder.  Ben could hear the ragged noises he was making even over the sounds inside his head, he could feel himself shaking.  “Ben,” she whispered. Rey was shivering, she shouldn’t have to look after him, he needed to be strong enough to do this himself.  Ben lifted his head. He couldn’t see her very well now, even with the moonlight; the firelight and the smoke made it hard to see. “M-my father.  He came r-running to save the stable, the h...the horses. He said,” by now he was half-blind, between the past and the pain, “...’Good work, son.’ That was almost the last thing I heard him say.  B-but….but not quite.” He could hear the echo of his father’s voice in his own.

 

“It wasn’t enough.  The w-water, the...the work, it wasn’t enough.  F-father...Father… I w-went back in for m-my, for my mother’s horse.”  Ben was shaking so much that Rey’s teeth were chattering together, he could hear it over the flames.  He had to let go of her hands. He would hurt her. He was always hurting people. She shook her head, as if she could hear that, and took his hands back again.  

 

“Don’t...let go.”  She held his hands between hers to still them.  “Not alone...remember?”

 

Ben was taking huge gulps of air, or maybe sobs, and he still couldn’t get enough breath.  He was looking at the fire, and hearing it, and smelling it, but he was cold. “M-my father, he...he followed m-me, to help.  To help _me_ , when it...it was my f-fault, all of it.  She was b-beautiful, the palfrey. Diadem. Her n-name.”  Why had he remembered that? It didn’t matter, not for what he was saying.  Father had said every princess needed a crown. Princess, that’s what he’d called Mother.  Ben had forgotten that.

 

Rey turned his face back to her.  He seemed to have wandered a little, looking over her shoulder at something that wasn’t here.  He couldn’t see their surroundings at all any more, only her. Ben could still see her. “The roof, it...the roof collapsed.  H-he heard it, the _crack_.”   Ben was still hearing it, a dozen years later out here in the woods. “...and he sh..shoved me out of the s-stable.”  He couldn’t sit up straight, there wasn’t enough AIR, there was too much smoke.

 

Ben shied away from the rush of hot cinders and soot.  “BEN!” That was louder than he’d meant it to be, his father’s voice.  Rey flinched at the sound. “S-sorry. That was the last, the last thing I...h-heard him say.  My name. And then...then he was gone. The s-stable was gone, and he was…” Dead, the word was _dead_ , but he couldn’t make it pass his lips.  He could hear it, over and over, against the crash and the greedy sounds.

 

“This thing, the d-demon, I don’t, I don’t know if it’s been he-here all along, w-with me, or...but I let it, I d-disobeyed, I ch-chose for myself over what I...over what was owed to G-God, and it m-must have been _waiting_ , but the f-FIRE, it took him, it _killed_ him, the lantern was mine, _I_ killed him, and I’ve been t-trying so _long_ , to m-make things right, to make the work, to make _me_ right, so I can meet him again, someday, so I c-can tell him I’m _sorry_ .”  He shook his head, tears splattering on their joined hands.   “But I don’t, I don’t think it’s _working_.  It won’t l-leave me alone.”  His shoulders were rounding, back bowing under the weight.  

 

Rey wormed herself under his arm, embrace and support, there against the trunk of a tree in Monk’s Wood.  That was its name, this place. She was holding him upright, she shouldn’t have to do that, but it was easier to breathe that way.  Ben sucked in a few lungfuls of air and tried again. “The tack shed caught fire. At Saint Augustine’s. I kn...I know how it happened.  That’s not important. But I thought, I don’t really know, I thought it was happening again. I...I got a bucket, and I went to try and help but I couldn’t get near it, I wasn’t strong enough.”  

 

Ben scrubbed a hand over his face.  “I woke up in the infirmarium. And somebody got hurt again.  Brother Lorcan, I...I _hit_ him, Rey.  His face, there was this bruise…  I got lost in the past, and someone got hurt.  What is it in me?” He shook his head. “I felt alone.  I was so afraid, and there was no one there."  She put a hand to her mouth, eyes hurting and sorrowful.   "I th-thought the two of you, that I wasn’t, I didn’t deserve you.  There was no one but me and the fire, my f-father and the...the demon. And then I thought I _should_ be alone; then nobody could get hurt.  You wouldn’t be destroyed, or Lorcan, or Timothy, and the only person I could hurt would be me.  So I was. I was alone.” Rey was shaking her head, a denial, pain written in her eyes alongside the memory of worry.

 

He reached his hand out now, to touch her face.  “I didn’t know you yet. I didn’t understand you were people like me, who could feel hurt, I couldn’t know how wonderful you both were.  I didn’t understand how it would hurt you, if I turned away your hope.” He pressed his brow against hers. “I didn’t mean to leave you. I had no reason to think I mattered to you.  If I’d realized…”

  
She was crying again, and the cough was starting.  “I’m sorry. You really do need to sleep. Here.” He got them both a drink of water, then settled his back against the tree and drew her back to lean on him again.  “Just close your eyes. I’m not...burned,” he shivered, “and I hope I’m not lost. I’m here, and I’ve got you.” He had her, for whatever good it did them both, and he _would_ be damned if he let anything hurt her, even himself.  He wasn’t alone; and that was just as important to remember for her sake, for all their sakes, as it was for his.  When she’d fallen asleep, he took them both back to the bracken bed under the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems that Luke isn't the only one who has things in common with Sisyphus. Significant events in their lives return to them with so much weight, these Walkers, and they carry them over and over. Rey and Ben are still learning about each other, after a fashion, even if one of them can't easily communicate. Daniel is surprisingly articulate when he's fed up with the, err, horsesh*t. And Luke's fantastically oblivious attempts to express concern make Finn want to pound him into the ground like a tent peg; which isn't going to help much with getting the story of Ben's fires.
> 
> I had not previously been aware there was such a thing as a bee orchid; they're just the most amazing little flowers. Bluebells return and return, for us, they're so beautiful and meaningful and can symbolize so many things. Dorothea is making our innocents blush, all the way from Merida. Ben is getting romantic advice in memory, not that he realizes he needs it. And when you've grown close to someone, especially when it's fast, it can be hard to remember what they already know about you and what they still have to learn.


	25. Delirio et Depictio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delirium and Description: In which Rey is not faring well, and Ben must take charge. In which Finn needs to know more, and dreads it all the same. In which Exilium is surprisingly kind, and Abbot Luke is shockingly human. In which Daniel has a plan, even if he doesn't want to have one and no one else really does. In which Finn lies, and our three are thinking of each other, always connected even when they're apart. In which even the memory of horses is of great importance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone who knows and loves horses. Ben is pushing Exilium rather farther than he should, but he's a little desperate. This is fiction, so no permanent harm will be done to the stallion. Potential trigger warning: emotional and other manipulation in the name of religion, and the effect that might have on both parties.

Today she’d hardly woken up at all.  She wouldn’t eat, not even strawberries, none of the good things they still had.  Rey was coughing as soon as her eyes were open, harsh and deep and jagged, stealing her breath and her energy.  It was still, Ben thought, two days to Salisbury at the pace they’d been going; the easy, gentle speed meant to keep her safe, keep her as well as he could for as long as he could.  He could tell, though, that her eyes wanted to close again; so he packed up their things, made her drink some water, and lifted her onto the stallion’s back. 

 

Exilium’s head turned back toward his passenger, soft nose poking at her hands as he made a strange, gentle snuffling noise.  When the stallion huffed a few breaths across Rey’s middle, Ben thought he’d been right to be worried. Even the horse was concerned.  Rey smiled, just a little, and stroked her hand down the long nose. She looked none too steady, though, and Ben hurried to clamber onto the broad back behind her before she started sliding sideways onto the ground.  

 

“I’ve got you.  Just sleep, today.  We’ll be there soon, and you can rest.”   He hoped that was true. Ben had no idea what kind of pace Exilium could make besides the easy walk that had so far been all Ben himself could handle, nor any concept of how long or far a horse could go in one day.  He didn’t want to hurt the stallion, who’d been...kinder than Ben would have expected. But he was beginning to think the time for taking it slow was over. Should he have told her the story of the fire? She’d had to talk, more than he would have thought she could.  He’d made it worse, damn him.

 

Rey started coughing again, as if in agreement; only Ben’s arm around her waist kept her from hitting her face on Exilium’s neck as she doubled over.  They hadn’t even started moving yet. He rubbed and patted her back with his other hand. He’d need to keep the waterskin handy. She didn’t respond at all to what he’d said, even with a nod, but her eyes gradually closed and her weight grew heavier against his chest.  The heat radiating from her skin was alarming, even through their robes. 

 

Ben knew he’d survived what he thought was this same sickness, even as young as he’d been; but he hadn’t exactly gone on a five-day ride across the countryside, either.  He’d been tucked neatly into bed, dosed and rested and treated with tender care. He thought bitterly that Rey couldn’t exactly say the same. She deserved better. Ben had spent enough time gazing longingly at the two of them in the refectory to know that if Rey wasn’t eating, it was definitely time to worry.  

 

How exactly did you make a horse go faster?  The memories of his lessons were old and dim, hidden behind heat and screams and pain; but he needed them now.   _ “Walk… _ (We need more buckets!) _...trot… _ (Good work, son.) _...canter… _ (BEN!) _...you’ll need to slap the reins firmly on your horse’s back, at the shoulders...kick lightly into your mount’s sides with your heels...don’t worry, you won’t hurt her…   _ Ben could just hear the instructions over the roar.  He couldn’t really hear Exilium’s hooves or the wind in the trees any more, but he didn’t need those, not just now.

 

He flicked the stallion’s back with the halter, ignoring his own rapid breathing.  He’d have to trust Exilium not to run all three of them into a tree; all he could really see was Rey in front of him and his own hands on the reins.  Ben pulled his feet away from the stallion’s sides and brought his heels sharply back into place. He immediately felt a change, the bone-rattling pace the stallion had tried at the beginning of this journey...just five days ago, that couldn’t be right...and of  _ course  _ that set Rey to coughing again.  He was an idiot. Walk. Trot. Ben drew his heels back and tried again, this time with more force, slapping the leather across Exilium’s back with a  _ snap.   _ There was a startled snort that he felt more than he heard it, vibrating through the ribs against his knees.

 

This got him another change of pace, a strange  _ one two three  _ rocking sort of rhythm that was smoother than the last, almost soothing.  Canter. “ _ Good, Ben, that’s very good.  Let her have her head, and when you want to slow down, pull back on the reins.”   _ The smoke was making him dizzy.  He let go with one hand to wrap it around Rey’s middle, until the coughing began to settle and she leaned back into his chest.  

 

Were they still going in the right direction?  Ben could still see the sun. They were. His eyes were sore and his knuckles were tight on the halter, but they were still heading toward Salisbury.  Rey’s eyes were closed and she was still. He hoped that was all right.. He could feel her breathing. He’d just have to be in charge of the inside of his own head for a while.  Someone needed to be.

 

Ben concentrated on her shoulders and the drift of her hair against him, on the sunlight.  He reached for the memory of Finn’s arms, strong and sturdy around him, and the tangle of their limbs together as they’d slept.  Ben focused on the curl of Rey’s back as she’d sought his warmth, drowsy under the blue quilt. Gradually, the smell of bracken in the nighttime woods replaced the reek of smoke, and the sound of the wind returned.  He was learning.

 

…

  
  


Finn was not looking forward to this day.  His eyes burned with last night’s tears, and he didn’t doubt that the results of his night were clear to anyone looking.  He’d caught Daniel frowning at him when he came into the stable that morning to ready their mounts. Finn had already been awake and tending to those tasks himself, until Daniel had unceremoniously evicted him with firm orders to get himself to the refectory and find some breakfast and something warm to drink.

 

There was plenty of work to do as they rode on toward Norwich, and not much opportunity to talk, a circumstance for which Finn was selfishly glad.  He was tired. It seemed he didn’t sleep nearly as well without knowing exactly where and how Rey and Ben were, any more. The nightmares weren’t helping, whether or not they belonged to him.  Being in the stables had helped, he thought. That had been good advice. 

 

Daniel frowned at him again as they prepared to get back into the saddle for the day.  He glanced at the easy terrain that lay before them, then over at Abbot Luke, saying his goodbyes and thanks for the hospitality, then back at Finn.  With a nod to himself, he used an extra lead to tether Rowan’s reins to Hazel’s saddle, then gave Finn a raised eyebrow and a questioning half-smile. Finn was a little ashamed that his weariness was so obvious, but he shrugged and nodded his thanks.  That would make dozing on horseback a bit less dangerous; that, and the hours in the saddle he’d had since leaving Saint Augustine’s. 

 

Strangely (or not so strangely, if his dreams were his own), Finn was still in the saddle after his eyes had closed.   _ Walk.  Trot. Canter.   _ The voice of the caravan merchant who’d wanted so badly to hire him on a permanent basis sounded in his ears, Arabic flavored with laughter and pleased approval as he’d taught Finn the way to guide horses, their gaits and the signals they would know.   He’d been working on touch and instinct, speaking gently to the animals and stroking their flanks when they shied or startled. The merchant had noticed, and asked him if he’d like to learn properly how to handle them, since they seemed to respond so well to him.

 

Woodsmoke from their fire drifted through the dusk of the memory; desert nights were cold.  It was good to remember when he’d begun to love horses; they way their ears swiveled, eyes rolling and graceful necks arching to listen as he spoke, as though he’d become their whole world for just an instant.  He should tell Ben about it, when he got back. It might be hard for him; but perhaps it would help, to hear how Finn had come to understand them. And if it proved to be too much, well then Finn would be there to hold onto him and banish the shadows, and Rey would too.  Ben wouldn’t ever have to endure that alone again. That would be good. 

 

That half-asleep thought was interrupted by the *click* of his teeth snapping together as Rowan broke into a trot.  It seemed Finn had dug his heels into her flanks as they rode. He answered Daniel’s surprised look of inquiry with a raised hand and a rueful shake of his head before pulling back on the reins and giving poor confused Rowan’s neck a few pats.  He hadn’t been drifting for long. Best to give the present his full attention. 

 

They ate their midday meal in the saddle.  This part of their journey would be the longest, Finn had learned.  They stopped to eat and rest again toward dusk, at the edge of a wood close to the road, near a stream that trickled through the trees.  They would arrive at Wymondham Abbey after dark, but the road was even and the way was clear. Twilight lingered, this time of the year.  Riding this long and this late was a little harder on their mounts, but Daniel had told him the Abbey had a fine stable, and it would be a short and easy ride in the morning to get to their destination in Norwich.

 

Finn thought it odd that Daniel laid a fire; it was summer, after all.  The trace of a wince, carefully and almost immediately hidden, as Abbot Luke flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders told him why; the days of riding were wearing on him more than he cared to admit.  “The horses need a longer rest today, Abbot Luke,” Daniel calmly announced, “this is a far more extensive journey than they are used to making at one time. We should make this a longer stop than usual, if that will not interfere with your plans.”  Finn caught the trace of a smile in the grey-and-brown of Luke’s beard; Daniel wasn’t fooling him.

 

Daniel examined the feet and coats of their mounts, removing their tack so they could roll in the grass if they chose, and Finn busied himself assembling a meal from their supplies.  Luke started to get to his feet to help with the work, but Finn waved him back down. “No need. There’s only work enough for one, and I need to stretch.” Luke tiredly nodded, sinking back onto the fallen log he’d claimed as a seat.   Finn glanced over to see Daniel looking back at him, inclining his head toward the abbot. He nodded, with a resigned, silent sigh.

 

Their meal was soon completed, and they all took the opportunity for a rest.  Daniel was, to all appearances, drowsing by the fire. Finn would have thought the same of Abbot Luke, had he not seen his lips moving.  From the look of it, he was praying, though he hadn’t taken the rosary Finn knew he carried out of its place tucked into his cincture. He was kneading his right wrist with the opposite hand, and the etched lines of old pain were apparent around his mouth and his closed eyes.  Finn remembered Brother Yohannes had suffered greatly from joint-ail, and the knuckles of both hands told him that the same was true of the abbot. But this was something different, almost as though the wrist were trying to twist back on itself.

 

It was as good a way to begin a conversation as any other.  Finn pushed himself up from the ground where he’d been sitting and crossed to sit beside Abbot Luke on the fallen log.  “May I?” The blue eyes snapped open, brows drawing down beside the deep line of suspicion and vexation between them. Finn ignored what might be a warning and went on to explain. “I am no Brother Lorcan, to be certain; but I have studied here and there, along the way; and there were times when we had no formal infirmarian, and made do with each other.  Have you injured yourself?” The abbot seemed about to protest, but he shook his head, saying nothing, and extended his hand to Finn with a noncommittal grunt.

 

Finn couldn’t hide the widening of his eyes as he pulled back the black sleeve.  The scar was a thick, white rope winding its way across and around the tendons and muscles of Abbot Luke’s wrist.  He met the older man’s eyes; they seemed to challenge him to ask, as did the flat expression, so kept his questions to himself.  “The injury is old,” he said, “and poorly healed, at least at first; which is no reflection upon whoever tended you. Piecing this back together couldn’t have been easy.   But you kept the hand, and from what I have seen its use, so all was not lost, it would appear.” He flexed the wrist and rotated the hand, noting the reaction of his patient.  “A moment, Abbot Luke.”

 

A length of cloth wasn’t hard to find; Finn wet it in the stream and held the improvised compress near the fire until it steamed.  A questioning lift of the cloth toward the abbot yielded a nod; Finn wrapped the wrist, tucking the ends of the cloth under and around each other until the entirety of the scar could soak up heat.  Finn returned to sitting next to Abbot Luke, considering what to say next.

 

“Thank you, Brother Finn.”  

 

“Of course.”  They sat a while longer, the silence somehow more companionable than it had been a few minutes before.  Finn was still thinking about how to broach the subject of Ben’s past with his uncle when one of the bigger logs collapsed into the campfire with a rending *crack* and a sudden flare. The horses whinnied and moved restlessly where they were tethered.   Luke flinched. It was possibly the most unguarded reaction he had ever seen from this man. He was not going to find a better moment, Finn supposed.

 

“Abbot Luke?  You mentioned that Brother Benedictus, your nephew, is prone to nightmares.”  Finn had to stop and breathe through his nose for a moment; just that sentence was enough to make him angry all over again.  

 

Across the campfire he saw Daniel get to his feet.  “I’ll go and quiet our mounts, and make sure they’re ready to resume travelling.”  It was a graceful, if hasty, exit. Abbot Luke had gone still, waiting for Finn to speak again.  

 

“I don’t know, truly, whether you had more in mind housing me with Benedictus than efficient use of the abbey’s space.  But with him I have nevertheless been, and I would like to help.” He drew in a fortifying breath. The abbot’s eyes glittered in the firelight as he kept his steady gaze on Finn.   “Benedictus is not...inclined to share; not yet, at any rate. But we both know that he fears horses, and the stables.” 

 

The next few sentences were going to be full of lies, but Finn could hardly explain why he knew that Ben feared fire; it was not knowledge he’d gained in the ordinary, waking world.  “He speaks, in his sleep.” That much was true. Though he’d never said what it was that he feared, he had spoken, cracked and twisted words that had never strung together into something coherent or clear.  And shouted, and screamed, Finn’s thoughts added, but that wouldn’t be anything Abbot Luke didn’t already know from his cell on the other side of the wall, damn him. “He speaks of fire, always of flames, when his sleep is torn asunder.”  The first lie. 

 

Luke’s mouth pulled to one side, an involuntary grimace, as Finn continued.  “I would like to understand. I don’t know, truly, whether I can be of any assistance.  But knowing the root of it could only improve things, I think; and even if only for the sake of my own sleep,” that was a second lie, it was watching Ben and his pain that Finn could no longer tolerate, “I would prefer to know.  At the very least, I could then avoid reminding Benedictus of whatever it is that haunts his rest.” Ben was haunted by so much more than this, Finn knew; and there lay the third lie, and he hoped the last. He waited, hands in his lap, looking toward the trees.

 

There was a gusty sigh from the man next to him.  “I knew, before he was even born, what God had meant for me to do.”  That wasn’t about Ben. Finn kept waiting. He could be patient. “It had come to me, like a gift; that I’d been called to teach, to greet those young men called to serve and help them find what God had granted them, each in their own brilliant way.  I would guide them in their path to serve Him, to serve peace and better understanding.” Abbot Luke was explaining his own vocation; Finn knew this as a gesture of trust, unexpected, and said nothing, letting the words unfold as they might.

 

Luke shook his head.  “I wasn’t Abbot yet; that would come later.  When Ben was born, it was assumed that he would be heir to the lands and estate, as such things most often go.”  Finn wondered if the abbot was fully aware that it was “Ben”, not “Brother Benedictus” or even just “Benedictus”.  He thought not. 

 

“It wasn’t long, though, before it was apparent that he was made for better things.   As soon as he could get his hands on a plummet, chalk, a stylus, quill and ink, anything that could make a mark, we could see, *I* could see, that he had a talent.”  Abbot Luke levelled a serious, pensive look at their campfire. “Sometimes it was hard to know how a novice was best suited to serve. There were those who never truly found their way.  But Ben! He shone so  _ bright _ , there was no need to wonder; he was like a beacon.  Sheltering that light, caring for it, was a grave and vital responsibility. ”

 

A scoffing noise, almost a snort, startled Finn, coming from the abbot; it was hard to imagine, sometimes, that he was a man like any other, that he’d been young once.  “He’d have been  _ wasted  _ as Lord of the Manor.  Dealing with disputes about whose sheep had damaged whose fence or crops, dispensing small justice, when the learning, and art, and  _ illumination _ he could create would sing God’s praises and glory; something that would last, would teach minds, touch hearts, transform souls.”  He sounded hopeful, yearning, as though he could  _ see _ this happening; but there was anger in his voice, too.  

 

Finn couldn’t understand why.  “There was only one place for a gift like his, only one way it could flourish.  He was  _ made _ for the church.”  It sounded as though the abbot were still trying to convince someone, even though no one was arguing.  Luke’s mouth turned down, his tone sour. “I had no such gift. It wasn’t mine to channel Heaven’s inspiration, but it was given to me to bring to Him those who could.”  He stared at his hands, with their battered, tired joints and the compress covering that grisly scar, as though they’d somehow offended him.

 

Finn wasn’t sure if he should encourage Abbot Luke to continue, or efface himself so as not to interrupt the flow of words.  He wasn’t exactly qualified to judge who should give themselves to the Church. He hadn’t known any other life. Wasn’t it a foregone conclusion at this point, since Ben was already Brother Benedictus?   He settled for a murmur that could almost be taken for the sound of wind in the trees. “His work is certainly remarkable. An ability such as that must be rare.” That trace of sourness in what the abbot had said...envy?  Certainly there was much in Ben to admire; but it came at the cost of such pain.

 

Luke gave no indication that he’d heard.  “I took it upon myself to see to his religious education.  I visited my sister and her husband, taught him the canonical hours, the comfort and structure of prayer.  I showed him...I brought out of the Abbey and _ showed _ him!  some of the works hands and minds had made, there at Saint Augustine’s.”  There was a pause, long enough that Finn glanced over at the other man to see a smile curving there under the stern brow and sharp eyes.  “And he loved them...so young, still, but I could see the reverence with which he regarded the manuscripts.” Finn could hear pride and fondness, an affection that Ben’s uncle had never shown in his presence.  The smile turned wry and rueful. “It was worth the penance I was given when I returned.” 

 

That was the last of it, though, the unexpected hint of some lighter, sunnier feeling.  The more familiar thunderclouds returned. “It wasn’t enough. I...wasn’t enough.” The slight, almost imperceptible unsteadiness of that declaration, Finn knew, was like a chorus of sobbing from any other man.  “If I’d done something different, perhaps…” 

 

He was beginning to wonder if this conversation, this confession, was over by the time Abbot Luke spoke again.  “He hid from me.” Those four short, weighty words were pulled from him all unwilling, like an untended splinter or a rotten tooth.  “When it was time to pray, he hid from me, to follow more interesting pursuits. I didn’t know what, until later.” The abbot’s good hand rose to pass down his face, ending in a tug at his beard.  

 

The meat of the tale was given in an emotionless rush, as though Abbot Luke were reciting harvest accounting figures.  “I searched the estate for him. He was twelve, and I thought it best to find him, to make him understand the importance of the vocation he’d been given.  I checked the mill, the meadows, the stillroom and stores. I didn’t know where he’d gone, and by the time I reached the stables, it was over.” They were coming to the heart of the matter, Finn knew, the stables. 

 

“Nor did I know, at first, how the fire started.  It was later, only later, that I learned, from Ben himself, that he’d crept away to draw the horses.  He was enamored of them, once. Almost all of them perished in the flames.” His tone was still flat and even.  “We found the lantern that Ben had brought, or what was left of it; and the stableboy, too. He’d been quickly overcome.  He’d never made it out of the building, as near as we could tell.” The light wasn’t good enough to give Finn a clear idea of what passed across the abbot’s face, but something choked and drowning crept into his words.

 

Gooseflesh prickled along Finn’s arms and shoulders, there by the warmth of the fire on a summer evening.  “It took us longer to find Ben’s father. Even with all the buckets of water from the stream, the heart of the blaze was hot enough that no one could get near him.  It was already clear, by the time I arrived, that my sister’s husband was gone. No one could have been alive in that. They took Ben back to the manor; there was nothing more he could do.  But someone had to stay, to wait until it was possible to....see to my brother-in-law.” A hint of tremor, ruthlessly dispatched as soon as it began.

 

The icy calm was back, so wrong here in a season of heat.  “Someone had to...make him right. It was my honor and privilege.  It was nothing that my sister or his son needed to see.” This was delivered in a low mutter.  Finn wasn’t certain that Abbot Luke was entirely cognizant, any longer, of the content of his words.  They spilled out into the woodsmoke-scented air and across the sound of crickets in the grass, without direction.  “He wasn’t, Ben wasn’t, old enough or strong enough to fathom the damage done.” 

 

The anger was back again, almost too fleeting, too mercurial for Finn to follow, laced with pinpoints of resentment.  He hadn’t thought there was much that could shake Abbot Luke; but this story was horrifying to hear, and he couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Ben, or for that matter for his uncle.   “He knew, already, that his father was dead, that the fire which killed him had begun by his own hand. That was a sufficient burden to bear. So I took the work, the care, and delivered the news to his mother, my twin.  I needn’t have bothered. She knew.”

 

In the dim light, with no change in his tone, it wasn’t until Finn heard the drops fall through the older man’s beard, onto the hands laid steadily on his knees, that he realized the abbot was crying.  The lack of any attempt to conceal this suggested that he was unaware. “Something changed. I still don’t know what. But he chose, Ben chose, to seek the comfort and solace of the Abbey, of his new brothers there.”  It seemed important that Finn understand this, even if Abbot Luke didn’t appear to remember that anyone was listening. 

 

“He told us that he’d be entering the Abbey.  He was calm, and certain.” Luke frowned. “There was some talk, that he hadn’t mourned, that he hadn’t wept.   But he must have found peace, and resolve, to have made a decision like that.” Softly, he spoke, gentle as he stared blindly into the darkness of the trees.  “He looked so much like his father, in that moment. But it was his mother, once she’d decided on a thing, who never could be moved. I was glad,” he declared with something like ferocity.

 

His shoulders slumped.  “It was my hope...it still is...that we should both find absolution.  Ben gives his work as service, an offering that should be both atonement and joy.  And I...will spend my life earning the right and certainty of my vocation, as I should have done before my friend...before Ben’s father was dead.”  There was a world of old hurt, but no less sharp for that, in the simple words,  _ my friend _ .

 

Abbot Luke cleared his throat with a rasp.  “I would think that gives you enough to be going on with.”  Finn could hear the echo of Brother Lorcan’s speech and its music in that.  “When you and Brother Reymund arrived, it was the answer to a seeking, a prayer.  I am not blind. My nephew is too much alone; and it should be my place, as any of the things I might be to him, to offer help.  I think...that if he is to be drawn into the world, it cannot be by me, carrying the blame for the history that lies between us. I cannot share the work with him as you can, or learn from him, as Brother Reymund might; I have only the memory of sorrow.”  

 

A grunt of effort, and possibly of pain, signalled the end of revelation as the abbot slowly rose to his feet.  He turned back to Finn, face shadowed so its expression could not be discerned. “You asked, and your reasoning was sound.  This is not a history given to many to know. It changes nothing about your place at the Abbey of Saint Augustine, or about my expectations.  Be wise in how you proceed. This does not give you license to be insubordinate; and we will not speak of it again.” Abbot Luke disappeared with surprising quiet into the trees.  Finn could hear him tell Brother Daniel that it was time to resume their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke is tough. He really did and does believe in Ben's best interests. He doesn't have all the information, he's human enough to be fallible, and he's been nearly as badly hurt as Ben. He is both difficult and gratifying to write, so I hope he turned out all right.
> 
> We had a beautiful commission made by [Avamarga](https://twitter.com/avamarga_)! At the time of posting she is accepting commissions and she comes very highly recommended.


	26. Anxietas et Adventus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety and Arrival: In which Ben is desperate and everything is both horribly and sometimes wonderfully familiar. In which new and old friends are found. In which Ben was missed, and he and Rey are safe. In which it's important to remember where you parked the car. In which competence and kindness are needed and welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben's memories aren't all bad. He was loved, and he's stronger than he thinks he is.

He could barely get her to drink the water.   Between the coughing, the furnace heat that poured from her skin, and the grass-and-bark eyes that stayed stubbornly closed, there weren’t that many opportunities to try; but even when they stopped, even when he absently put food and water in his body because he knew he needed it, even while Exilium gulped great gasps of air between mouthfuls of grass, Rey turned her head from the waterskin and feebly batted at his hands.  Awareness seemed to have gone the way of speech, now, and on the occasions that she was closer to the surface of sleep, her head tossed and her body tensed against his. And Ben was terrified.

 

He took no note of the woods and meadows and hills through which they rode; it wasn’t important.  All that mattered now, more than his own bone-deep weariness, more than the stallion’s increasingly sweat- and foam-streaked sides, more than the tremors and ice that played up and down Ben’s spine as they got closer to Salisbury and the press of his sins, was getting Rey to help and care.  He’d forgotten, in the last dozen years, how dangerous, exhilarating, and frightening it was to have people who _mattered_ so much, to have allowed himself to be reached.

 

He ate in the saddle, the better to spend the brief rests for the sake of their mount desperately trying to get trickles of water down her throat.  He wet scraps of cloth in the play of streams where they stopped and laid them against the blaze of her brow; cupped his hands, and let trickles of cool slide down her neck and down inside her robes.  And in between, in the rushing of wind and the blur of green-and-brown countryside, Ben prayed, as he thought (oddly for someone who spent so much of their life in the presence of prayer) he’d forgotten how to do.

 

When Ben thought to pay attention to his surroundings again, everything was beginning to look awfully familiar, as though his flight from the ashes of his childhood was unspooled thread being wound back onto its skein, drawing him back to all the things he’d never been able to truly leave behind.  The set of a hill would catch his eye, and he’d be back there, in the donkey-cart in which he’d made his way to Canterbury. He’d forgotten that. They hadn’t been able to get him on a horse. The irony was not lost on Ben as he ran a hand down the stallion’s neck; needs must, he supposed. Their truce had held better than he’d expected.

 

The rain had started in earnest a few hours ago, and they still had a few hours to go.  He’d done his best, with both their scapulars and the quilt beneath, to keep Rey out of the wet; but it was already dark well before dusk, with the crack of thunder and the spark of lightning alongside the drops that quickly became a downpour.  There was no staying dry in this. Perhaps it would help to lower her fever? Ben certainly hoped so. He tried to ignore the water streaming across his own skin and murmured to Exilium instead. “I’m sorry. I really am. You’re doing so well. I don’t...I don’t even know where the s-stables will be.  But someone will know. Thank you.”

 

Ben found, during that last, hazy, impossible stretch of their travels, that he’d learned a few things.  He was capable of more than he’d thought, with the proper degree of desperation. It was necessary to alternate a canter with a walk in order to avoid injury to one’s mount.  Skin could become so drenched that it resembled the wrinkles in dried fruit, in places he hadn’t thought that would be possible. And, finally and most horribly, it was possible to cough violently enough to injure yourself somewhere inside.  This last he was to discover as they approached his family home. The rain had soaked through everything they had, and Rey’s coughing was constant and miserable.

 

He tied the stallion’s reins to a branch as he searched for something dimly recalled.  Here in the far corner of the estate, near to the place he was seeking, there had once been a gate.  Ben did his best to find somewhere out of the worst of the rain for Rey to rest while he searched along the wall; given the current conditions and his uncertain memory, it was likely to take some time to find what he sought.  It hadn’t been much used, any longer, even when he was small. He’d used it himself, on rare occasions, to leave the grounds of his family home with no one the wiser. He’d imagined he was going off to a faraway, mysterious land to bring home exotic treasures, just like… no.  Not here. He couldn’t think about that here.

 

Sometimes he’d imagined he was the Ben for whom he’d been named, a wise hermit living in a cave, touched by God with beautiful, terrifying visions, sought by those in need of guidance.  He’d thought of old Ben as some sort of wizard in those days. Now he wondered what sorts of things the old man might really have seen, and if he’d thought of them as a blessing or a curse.  Mother’s psalter had always appeared innocuous enough, with no hint of anything like what lived in his own mind or soul.

 

He wasn’t sure what purpose the gate had served, in generations past; his mother had never really spoken about her own mother and father.  He’d only been told that they had both died when she and Uncle Luke were young. Given what he’d learned since, in his studies, Ben suspected it had been a postern gate, once upon a time when the estate had needed heavier fortification.  By the time he’d been born the walls of the estate were mostly tasked with keeping out poachers and casual trespassers, rather than resisting a siege, and they were covered in ivy and overgrown with brambles.

 

It took him what felt like ages to find the gate, and Ben knew he’d been away from Rey too long; he was more fortunate in finding that it was undisturbed -- and unlocked.  The gate was smaller than he remembered, or maybe it was just that he was bigger; it would be a bit of a squeeze, but he knew they’d manage. The security of the Walker estate hadn’t been much at risk, he thought; beside being hard to find, the gate was even harder to open.  Ben braced his feet as best he could in the slick grass and soupy mud and threw all the weight of his body into the task, but his muscles were screaming by the time the door finally opened, with a shriek and a groan thankfully lost in the lash of rain and the sound of thunder.

 

Rey was sleeping, more or less peaceful, when he returned.  He walked the stallion through the gate first, so he could avoid disturbing her for as long as he could, and tethered Exilium again under the cover of a spreading oak.  When he came back to Rey, she was coughing again, eyes still closed. Ben lifted her as gently as he possibly could, tucking her head against his shoulder, but it only got worse, the spasms escalating as he carried her through the gate, closing it behind him (which, he was grateful to find, proved easier than opening it had been), and her breath wheezing.  A whimper made itself heard among all the other alarming sounds.

 

Ben looked down and found her eyes open for the first time in that endless day, beautiful as always, but clouded with hurt and still wandering with fever. She gazed steadily up at him, but he didn’t know what she might actually be seeing.  After a moment, her head dropped back onto his shoulder, and the dull barks and terrifying hollow sounds continued; until finally he _felt_ a wrench and a kind of snap from her side against his arm and she made a surprised noise of pain.  

 

“Rey…?”  He cupped her cheek with his free hand, patting at her face.   There was no response, not even a murmur or movement; just the hearth-heat of her skin and the harsh sawing sound of her breathing.  No, no, no. He needed to get where he was going, to get to _help_.  Ben shifted Rey in his grip, to better support her with an arm under her shoulders and one under her knees, and broke into a sort of cautious half-run.  The sky and the trees around him were dark and indistinct, but the daylight of memory inside his mind knew the way, even amid the relentless sheets of water and the punctuation of lightning.

 

It turned out to be better if he couldn’t see where he was going; Ben’s feet soon enough brought him to the door he sought, though the fatigue in his muscles suggested it had taken longer than he thought.  That, or he was just at the end of his tether.  The cottage, too, was smaller than he remembered; but its wattle-and-daub walls and thatched roof were very much the same, a promise of warmth and safety. He pressed close to the wall to take as much advantage as he could of the shelter of its generous eaves, and angled himself and Rey so he could pound on the door with one fist.

 

There was a long pause and a lot of shivering before Ben heard sounds from the other side of the door; he had no idea what time it might be.  There were muffled curses, if he was not mistaken, in a language he thought might be French, and a few thuds as of someone navigating in the dark. He tilted his head over Rey’s to try and protect her face from the weather as much as was possible, and waited.  Finally, between the thunderclaps, he heard the sound of a latch being lifted, and the scrape of wood on wood.

 

The man on the other side regarded him with puzzlement and not a hint of recognition, which was a completely mutual feeling.  Ben was looking at a man slightly more than a head shorter than himself, a candle in one hand (held far too casually for Ben’s own comfort).  Tousled curls, sparked with silver, were twisted in every conceivable direction, the tired eyes under them quickly flitting from Ben’s own face to Rey’s, pale except for the spots of hectic color over her cheekbones, to the water rolling off of both of them onto the path worn up to the door.  He frowned, a twist of his mouth barely discernible in the candlelight through the rough, dark beard.

 

“I…”  Ben was suddenly exhausted, his bones aching and his eyes burning.  This was not what, or who, he had expected, and he didn’t know this man.  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

 

The man blinked at him, then broke into a disarming smile.  “I live here. What you’re doing here is somewhat less of a mystery; the rest can wait.”  He turned his head back toward the dim interior of the cottage. “ _Ma fleur,”_ he called, “this one is yours, I think.”  He looked back toward Ben. “I’m sorry. Please, come inside out of the rain.”  Ben stood frozen. His thoughts had come completely to a halt; all this way, and a stranger stood at his destination saying things he should understand, but didn’t.  

 

After a few moments, the man evidently realized that Ben couldn’t make himself move; he reached out and took hold of the sleeve of Ben’s robe, tugging at him to turn sidelong and bring himself and Rey through the doorway, where they stood dripping on the cottage floor.  Light steps sounded from further inside, and Ben felt as though he could breathe again as he saw the familiar face by the light of the candle ( _watch that flame!)_.  “What is it?  Who would have been out in this long enough to hurt themselves, I,”  the sentence ended on a gasp and a jaw dropped in shock.

 

“Ben Solo!”  Rose stepped forward, her eyes roaming over Ben’s face.  Hers was just as he remembered it; a little more lined, perhaps, and the candle picked out a few threads of early gray in the blackness of her hair.  She reached a hand up as though she might set it on his cheek, ignoring the woman in his arms, and took firm hold of one of his ears. She used it to draw his head down, shoulders hunching awkwardly over Rey, until their faces were pressed together, brow to brow.  Hers was blurred at close range, but Ben thought she might be crying. He knew he was. He hadn’t expected her to know him after so long. “Where have you _been_?  Never mind, I know where, just...It’s good to see you again.”

 

“Rose, I...we…”  His thoughts skittered in all directions.  “Help. Please.” He held Rey out toward her like an offering.

 

Rose shook herself, her eyes gone sharp and assessing.  “Of course. Let me see her. Poe…”

 

The strange man - _was that his name?_ \- who’d been silent for the last few moments, nodded.  “I’ll build up the fire, start something hot to drink and find some blankets.  We’ll put...her in the loft?” An eyebrow rose as he took in the monk’s robe and the shorn strands of her hair, but he made no comment.  Rose gave him a warm smile.

 

“Yes, I think that’s best.  Ben. _Con ơi?_ ” It seemed to take longer to look at her than it should.  The phrase was familiar; even if he still didn’t know what it meant, he knew she was addressing him, as though he’d never been gone.  “Come with me. You can tell me what’s the matter, and Poe can carry her up to the loft. All right?” She peered up at him as though checking whether he understood.  Did he? It was a few more heartbeats as the man, Poe, prodded the fire in the hearth, then disappeared into another small room, before Ben’s tongue unstuck itself.

 

“She’s sick, Rose.  She wouldn’t stop coughing, all the way here, like I did when you helped me, and now she won’t look at me and she’s too hot and I think something’s broken.”  All the words tumbled out at once as though he were a child again and his teeth were chattering and he thought Rey might be shivering or his arms were shaking, he couldn’t tell which. The last of her words registered itself in his mind, “Poe will carry her”, and he shook his head, arms tightening around Rey to cradle her against his shoulder as he took a healthy step back.

 

Rose tilted her head, taking in his retreat.  She smiled at him. “I thought you should get warm and dry by the hearth, but perhaps you’d rather take her up there yourself?” He gave her a frantic nod.  “We can do that. This way.” A small hand flattened itself between his shoulder blades, steady until he stopped trembling, then giving a gentle push toward the ladder he could now see.  Climbing a ladder, he could do that for Rey and never let her fall. Had he said that aloud? He looked back at Rose.

 

“It’s all right.  I’ll see to her, you just need to carry her up there.”  That was the calm voice that had once woven itself through his fever dreams.  Ben nodded again, a little numb, turned Rey to hold her in one arm as he had before, head over his shoulder, and made his way up the ladder.  The snug space hadn’t changed much, except that it was considerably more snug. Ben wasn’t sure exactly what to do, he didn’t want to put Rey down, and she’d soak all the bedding.  There wasn’t enough room to stand entirely upright, so he just sort of crouched to one side, both of them shedding water everywhere, until Rose arrived at the top of the ladder.

 

She sighed.  “You’re going to have to put her down, Ben, so I can get her out of those wet things.  Sit her here against the wall.” The habit of doing what Rose told him, for his own good, was an old one, but it was still there.  He set Rey gently down to lean against the wall, and as Rose began doing exactly what she’d said, pulling the robe off over Rey’s head he gulped and squeezed his eyes firmly shut.  He could feel his cheeks heating up even through his current wet, chilly state.   “Rose, I…” Even with his eyes closed, he knew exactly what was being revealed, and the heat scorched up through his ears before travelling downward from his face.

 

Rose made an exasperated noise.  “You...need to take your overly large self back down that ladder and get out of your own wet clothes, Ben Solo, and next to the fire.”  She grabbed him by the elbow and shoved until he felt the ladder under his hands again, and he climbed back down into the room below. The man, Poe, was sitting at a table, rubbing his temples and yawning.  Something that smelled good was in a pot hanging over the hearth. Ben looked around the interior of the cottage and noticed the trail of rainwater he’d left. “S-Sorry. I didn’t mean to make a mess.”

 

Poe smiled at him.  “No, that’s no trouble, it’s not the first time someone’s stumbled into this place out of the rain.”  He turned a critical eye on Ben and his sopping wet Benedictine black, then smiled again, this time a slightly wider grin with a glint of humor.  “I think we can get you into one of my nightshirts, but I can’t promise your knees will be warm.” Ben was surprised into a snort, which made Poe laugh.  “Come over here.” Ben shuffled after him, trying his best not to flood the house. “Go ahead and get out of those, and,” he glanced around before dragging a rocking chair across the floor, “sit.”  He paused, until Ben realized he meant now and peeled his robe off over his head, then handed him a pair of blankets. “One to get the water off of you, and the other to wrap up when you’re finished.  I’ll be right back.”

 

Ben dried himself as best he could with one of the blankets, then pulled the other around himself before gratefully dropping into the chair.  His eyes were heavy, and he was warm here by the fire, even if the sparks made him wary. Poe reappeared with a nightshirt in one hand. He was probably right that it would fit, his shoulders were broad for someone that size; Ben idly wondered what kind of work he did.  “Let yourself get dry for a while longer, and you can try this.” Ben nodded, slouching down in the rocking chair until his feet were almost uncomfortably warm. His eyes kept threatening to close; he fought them, wanting to wait and hear what Rose had to say.

 

Poe didn’t ask him any questions, just brought the chair over from the table and sat next to him, keeping up a constant flow of words.  He talked calmly and softly about nothing in particular, telling Ben about what was growing in Rose’s herb garden, the things he’d been making in the smithy (oh, that explained the shoulders), and how long the storm might last.  The steady rhythm of his voice, along with the rain and the heat from the fire, lulled Ben into a half-doze, and finally drew him down into sleep.

 

He woke from a dim dream of badly contained flames when a hand lit on his arm, nearly upending the rocking chair trying to scramble backwards.  “Easy, Ben; sorry. You’re safe. I can hear Rose on her way down; here.” Poe slowly pulled his hand back, as though handling a spooked animal, and offered the nightshirt over his other arm.  He patiently waited while Ben got himself clothed, then moved aside as Rose approached them, face intent.

 

“Ben.  You said she was coughing like you did.   _Exactly_ like you did?”  Rose moved past them, into the cottage’s other room, beckoning for Ben to follow. It appeared to be Rose’s stillroom.  He described Rey’s illness as Rose found and assembled a bewildering variety of herbs and other medicines; some of which went into the cup of hot liquid Poe handed to her, when he appeared, before slipping back out of the small room.  He was everywhere he was needed at once somehow, with an ease and comfort that Ben envied.

 

But Rose needed information, in order to help, so Ben turned back to her.  “Yes, she had that same sound, that strange hollow noise.” He ducked his head.  “I didn’t know what to do, Rose, I know she needed help sooner, but I couldn’t take her to the infirmarium, she…”  He was too tired, and still too cold, to finish the sentence, but he thought it was probably self-explanatory.

 

Rose interrupted, so he didn’t have to try.  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll talk about that later. There was fever, weakness, coughing; has her mind been wandering?”  She gave him a sharp look when he didn’t immediately respond to that question. How exactly was he meant to answer that when their world was full of visions and shadows?  And the bits of manuscript she’d been repeating; there was no explaining that. He wasn’t exactly prepared to discuss the demon with a woman he hadn’t seen in a dozen years, no matter that how much he knew he could rely on her; and would that be a danger for her and the happiness she seemed to have found while he was gone?

 

“I...think so?  Today she wasn’t awake much at all.  But, Rose, I heard a sound, just before we knocked at your door, like something cracked, inside.  Is she all right?” His heart filled with sudden terror. “Will she…” She hadn’t given him any information, just asked him questions.  Was there a possibility she was going to...his mind rebelled against the very idea as a strangled noise made its way out of his mouth and his breathing quickened.  Rose looked at him as though she knew what he was thinking.

 

She took his hand, as she had all those years ago whenever he’d been afraid that the fever would take him, afraid of the distorted terrors it had shown him.  “Ben. Stop. Be calm.  She may have cracked one of her ribs, with the coughing. That can happen. She should recover well enough; you got her here as soon as you could, didn’t you?”  He nodded, breath slowing with her familiar voice. “All the way from Canterbury, I understand why the Abbey would be...problematic, but why did you come here?” Her expression was composed of equal parts confusion and sympathy.

 

“I trust you.”  She’d kept him together, held him when he shook with cold and heat and things he couldn’t name, and helped him stay himself.  He’d loved them both, Mother and Father, but it was with Rose that he’d felt perfectly safe, for the first and only time until Finn and Rey had come.  It was really that simple, but Rose looked slightly shocked so he gave the other reason. “And...I remember when you came. You know what it’s like, to travel as something other than what you really are.”  Her face softened, and she drew his head down a second time to meet hers before her typical brisk manner reasserted itself.

 

Ben followed in Rose’s wake as she bustled through the main room again.  She paused at the bottom of the ladder, studying him. “Give me a few minutes to help her, then you can go back up there.  I don’t suppose I’ll be able to keep you away from her.” His face must have answered that. “Wait here. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”  She disappeared under the rafters, and Ben stayed, helpless to make things better. He should be able to do more. He cursed himself for not getting here faster.

 

Ben had every intention of waiting until Rose came back down the ladder, until he heard a cough that mingled with a cry of pain.  He was at the top of the ladder before he realized he’d stepped onto the first rung. Rey was bundled into a sleeping gown that must belong to Rose.  She wasn’t awake, not really, but she was slumped over against Rose’s shoulder, obediently drinking from the cup being held to her mouth. “What...I heard…”  He looked Rey over from top to toe, but couldn’t see anything new that had gone wrong.

 

Rose set a finger across her lips.  “Coughing is painful for her at the moment, but this will make things a bit better.  Come here, then. What’s her name?” She crooked the same finger at Ben, then pointed at the floor on the other side of Rey.  “It will be easier if she stays calm, especially if she sleeps.” She eyed him entirely too much discernment for his comfort. “I imagine you can help with that.”  Her smile was knowing and unrepentant.

 

Ben knew he was blushing, but just then he didn’t care.  “Rey. Her name is Rey.” Ben knelt behind Rey on the other side and held out his arms.  Rose settled Rey back against him so that he could support her until she finished drinking whatever was in the cup as he stroked her hair.  She turned her face into his shoulder with a sigh. He could stay awake. He could hold her, like this, so she would feel safe and sleep. Rose cautiously eyed him where he knelt.  She came to some sort of decision and nodded at him.

 

“Stay here and keep her calm.  I’ll return soon.” As though he would leave her.  He could do it. He was a monk, after all; long hours without sleep and kneeling to pray came with the territory.  That was a good idea. Ben bowed his head and began a prayer.

 

_O angel dear, wherever I go,_

_Me that am committed to thy guard,_

_Save, defend, and govern also,_

_That in heaven with thee be my reward._

 

_Cleanse my soul from sin that I have done,_

_And virtuously guide me to God-ward._

_Shield me from the fiend evermore,_

_And from the pains of hell so hard._

 

_O thou comely angel, so good and dear,_

_That ever art abiding with me,_

_Though I may not thee see or hear,_

_Yet devoutly my trust I place in thee._

 

Ben couldn’t remember where he’d heard this particular prayer, but those were the words that came to mind.  The loft tilted, or maybe he did, but he kept Rey safe against his shoulder. He could feel some kind of bandages under the gown she was wearing; that was good, Rose had taken care of whatever she’d done to her ribs.  Her hair smelled of sweat and horse and rain, he thought; and he caught the scent of the tea Rose had given her as she breathed, and then he was lying down, but she was still sleeping and he was still watching over her, or she over him.

 

He heard music, singing, from somewhere, and he knew the tune, it meant everything was going to be all right and he could sleep.  The prayer Ben had been mumbling under his breath turned to humming, he didn’t know the words and he couldn’t understand them, but he remembered being small and hearing another voice, Rose’s voice, sing to him.  He wondered who was singing now, he should know, they’d just met; and then humming became breathing along with the sound of rain, and he drifted into sleep, there with Rey in the safety of the space under the eaves.

 

…

 

Poe shook his head.  There would be a lot of questions tomorrow.  For now, it was time for him to get Rose back to her interrupted rest, so she could better tend to her patient.  He supposed he ought to sleep, too; she would need him and he would be there to do whatever needed doing. He’d laid out a pallet by the fire for Ben.  And weren’t both of them puzzles! He could hardly fail to realize who Ben Solo might be, not after having lived here for the better part of a decade.

 

He hadn’t recognized the tall, anxious monk at the door in the few glimpses he’d had of the old portraits of the manor’s one-time heir, Leia’s only son; a gangly, awkward twelve year old, if the painter had made a true likeness.  And he’d been gone for as many years as he’d been alive when that portrait had been painted; with, so far as Poe knew, no word at all, save the bare knowledge that he was still alive and a brother at Saint Augustine’s.

 

But Rose had known him at once.  Poe smiled. Of course she had; she’d told him often enough of the shy young boy of whom she’d grown fond after caring for him through a childhood illness.  He would visit her, she’d said, when things were too much for him in the big house on the hill, draw flowers and herbs for the book she kept in her stillroom, and write her remedies on its pages.  Poe had seen them. He’d had a beautiful hand and a sharp eye, for someone so young. And now he was here, grown, on their doorstep in the middle of the night, with what Poe had taken to be a fellow monk.  

 

That hadn’t fooled Rose either; she saw the truth of things, it was part of what made her such a fine healer, and she’d known Ben’s feverish companion to be a young woman.  But he knew Rose; it wouldn’t matter to her except insofar as she needed information to treat the illness. Poe considered what he knew so far, whistling as he hung the wet things to dry by the fire.  Rose hadn’t been summoned to the manor, so he thought perhaps Ben had come straight here. That was interesting. The young woman was dressed as a fellow Benedictine, he thought, though if Poe’s memory was correct, they were both missing a few items of clothing.  And there was no mistaking that Ben loved her; it was in his eyes, and his voice, and the trembling in his hands. That was also interesting.

 

Small, warm hands slid round his waist as Rose chuckled.   “I don’t need a lullaby, _mình ơi_ , and I don’t think they will either.”  He looked down at her, confused. “Did you not know you were singing?”  Poe shrugged. Now that he thought on it, he had been singing, a lullaby that Rose loved.  He leaned down to kiss her, threading a hand through her hair before answering. “I don’t know, I think all of us could benefit from a little calm, don’t you, _ma moitié_?  I know it helped me, sometimes, when I used to wake thinking I was still at war, still pulling a bowstring, and you sang it to me.  I didn’t know what it meant, then; but it didn’t matter.” He tucked Rose against his chest, resting his chin on the crown of her head, and began again.

 

_Dí dầu cầu dáng đống đinh_

_Cầu tre lắc lẻo ngập ngình khó đi_

_Khó đi mẹ dắt con đi_

_Con đi trường học, mẹ đi trường đời_

 

It was Poe’s turn for a soft laugh as he cocked his head toward the loft.  “Listen. He’s humming along with me. You used that one on him, too, didn’t you?”

 

Rose grinned at him.  “It works. Not all medicine is made of growing things.  Sometimes it’s just made of safety and care. That helped you too.”  She yawned, giving the ladder a dubious glance before turning pleading eyes on him.  “Can you check on the two of them before we go back to bed, and see whether he’ll come down to sleep by the hearth?”  That was hardly fair. She knew he’d do anything for those eyes. It might be best to have a look. The humming had stopped, and the prayer he’d heard before it had not resumed.

 

Poe was laughing again when he came back.  “He’s not going anywhere tonight. He’s curled around her like an enormous, loyal hound, fast asleep, with his shoulder as her pillow.  I think it’s best not not to wake him, and I can’t imagine how we’d get him down that ladder half-asleep at any rate. All of us will have clearer heads in the morning; including you.  Off to bed with you!” He punctuated the last with a gentle swat to her backside, which got him a scandalized look that was patently false, followed by a kiss that was really more of a laugh into his mouth.

 

There was a sound from outside, faint but clear, that wasn’t part of the thunder, the rain, or the wind.  What was...Poe laid a finger across Rose’s lips. “Sshhh.” There it was again. “ _Merde.”_ He hadn’t been mistaken.  It was the squeal of a horse, angry or frightened.  “He didn’t tell you how they got here, did he?” His shoulders slumped.  The possibilities inherent in a warm, sleepy Rose and his own bed were going to have to wait.  “I can’t leave a horse out in this.” He grumbled under his breath, “I’m going to be colder and wetter than a fish by the time I get back.”  Poe sighed. Injuries and illness were for Rose, but rescues and strangeness tended to be his area of expertise. He supposed it wasn’t any worse than the time he’d been asked to get a goat off a nearby roof.

  
Rose shook her head.  “I’m sorry, no, he didn’t tell me how they got here. He came here on a _horse_?”  She closed her eyes for a moment.  “That would never have occurred to me; you know that story.  Given the state he was in when he got here, I’m sure it completely slipped his mind. Don’t use the stables; I don’t know whether Ben wants anyone to know that he’s here,” she advised, echoing the thought he’d had earlier.  She stood on her toes to give him a kiss full of promise, then whispered in his ear, a shiver of breath. “Just imagine how lovely it will be to get warm when you return.” Poe was whistling again as he headed out into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In researching this chapter, a lot of things were learned. You can indeed, especially with something like whooping cough, break your own rib coughing. Ouch. Any mistakes with either the Vietnamese or French language are mine. I couldn't resist the lovely Vietnamese lullaby I found. It translates as follows:
> 
> Imagine.  
> The wooden bridge is bound with nails,  
> The bamboo bridge is rough and difficult to  
> cross…  
> The bamboo bridge is rough and difficult to  
> cross…  
> Mummy has to cross over the bridge  
> I will hold your hand and walk across the  
> bridge with you  
> Imagine.  
> She will walk with the child to cross many  
> bridges.
> 
> Which is just lovely and dreamy. Rose addresses Ben as "O child", more or less, and Poe with an endearment that means "my body" or something like "my own flesh". Poe calls her "my flower" and "my other/better half". Why French? Well, you'll just have to keep reading for more of his back story. And possibly Rose's. We're interested to acquaint ourselves with this Poe; his experiences have been very different, though parental heroes, fighting, and pain are still among them.
> 
> Ben's prayer is from a manuscript, Oxford, Balliol College MS. 354 Richard Hill Commonplace Book, it's a sort of guardian angel prayer, and it's gorgeous. I've set it most likely a bit before it was actually written, though it is 15th century. I've only used part of it; the stanza originally ended with "Yet devoutly with trust I pray to thee", but since our angel is a living, human sort of being, I changed it a bit. All credit to the blog A Clerk of Oxford, which I do not own, but which is a fine resource. I found the lullaby here: http://www.ampersandla.com/vietnamese-lullaby-bridging-art-reality/ , among other places, I believe it's traditional, and my apologies if I've got any of this wrong, any cultural and literary references are made with reverence and respect.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Artwork we commissioned from [persimonne](https://persimonne.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, illustrating the first vision that Brother Ben has at the end of Chapter One. persimonne’s piece is designed to look like an illustration that Brother Ben would make of his first vision, which occurs at the very end of Chapter One, as the story is just getting started. The design of the piece is influenced by the illustrations in a real manuscript, the Lewis Psalter (Free Library of Philadelphia Lewis E 185, online [here](https://libwww.freelibrary.org/digital/item/5264)).


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